I reached out, my gloved fingers touching her shoulder.

She was real.

She was warm.

“How is this possible?” I asked.

Her eyes were glazed, struggling to focus on my face.

“He… he kept me here,” she muttered.

“Who did this to you?” I asked, though the answer already burned in my chest.

“Caleb,” she breathed.

She tried to sit up, but her limbs gave way.

I caught her, pulling her frail frame against my chest.

She felt as light as a handful of dry leaves.

“He told me you died in the fire,” she whispered into my shoulder.

Her breath carried the sweet, sickening smell of liquid tranquilizers.

“I survived, Clara,” I said. “I’ve been here. Right above you.”

A tear tracked through the dirt on her cheek.

“Seventeen years,” she murmured.

Nora peered down through the hatch from the cellar above, her hand over her mouth.

“Marcus, help me get her up,” I called out.

Marcus climbed down and carefully lifted Clara in his massive arms.

We carried her up the ladder into the cellar.

We laid her on the wooden bench next to Nora.