The light caught a pale, hollow face.

Her hair was long, tangled, and streaked with grey.

She squinted against the bright beam, raising a thin, trembling hand to shield her eyes.

I froze.

The flashlight shook in my hand, casting wild shadows on the concrete walls.

“Clara?” I whispered.

The name felt heavy, like a ghost in my throat.

Clara had died seventeen years ago.

I had watched the black Mercedes explode into a wall of fire on the highway.

I had buried an empty casket.

The woman on the cot slowly turned her head toward me.

Her lips were cracked and dry.

“Adrian?” she croaked.

Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with some kind of sedative.

I did not wait for Marcus or Daniel.

I climbed down the wooden ladder, my boots hitting the damp concrete floor of the vault.

The air down here was thick, cold, and hard to breathe.

There were empty plastic water bottles and a chemical toilet in the corner.

A single wire hung from the low ceiling, but the bulb was dead.

I knelt beside the cot.