“How long did he keep her down here?” I asked.

“Two years,” Adrian said.

His voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion.

“He moved her here from a facility in Canada when the syndicate started asking questions.”

The keypad beeped once.

The heavy steel deadbolt slid back with a loud, hollow thud.

Adrian grabbed the handle.

He pulled the door open.

Inside was a small, square concrete room.

There was a single cot in the corner, covered in rough gray blankets.

A small wooden table sat next to it.
On the table was a half-empty glass of water and a stack of old books.

A woman sat on the edge of the cot.

Her hair was long and graying, hanging down over her shoulders in tangles.

She wore a thick wool cardigan that looked several sizes too large for her thin frame.

She blinked against the sudden glare of the lights.

“Adrian?” she whispered.

Her voice was thin, like dry paper.

Adrian took two steps into the room.

He knelt down in front of her on the cold concrete.

He did not hug her.