“Celeste!” Graham’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs.

“Leave the cellar alone,” he said. “The appraiser just called, and we need to confirm the boundary lines.”

Celeste paused on the step.

I could hear the dry rustle of her silk scarf.

“There is wet mud on these steps, Graham,” she said.

“It is probably from the rain leaking through the old door,” he replied, sounding impatient. “Come up here. We do not have time for this.”

Her high heels clicked back up the stairs, one slow step at a time.

The heavy wooden door at the top shut with a firm click.

I let out a slow, quiet breath.

I had to get out before they decided to lock the cellar from the outside.

I crept toward the rear of the basement, where the old wooden coal chute met the stone foundation.

The rusted iron latch on the small window above the chute was stiff.

I pushed against the cold metal, scraping my knuckles in the process.

The latch gave way with a dull scrape.

I hauled myself up, sliding through the narrow opening into the wet grass outside.