Above us, the floorboards groaned a second time, directly over our heads.

Then came the sound of a key scraping inside the lock of the heavy oak door at the top of the stairs.

“Detective,” I whispered, the sound barely clearing my lips.

“Stay down,” Pierce breathed back.

The door creaked open, throwing a thin, diagonal wedge of pale light across the dusty concrete steps.

A silhouette appeared at the top of the landing, wide and imposing.

“Pierce?” a voice called out, low and gravelly. “Elena?”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

It was Marcus Vale.

He held a heavy-duty tactical flashlight in his left hand, the beam cutting through the damp darkness of the basement and landing on our boots.

“The breaker in the hallway was tripped,” Marcus said, descending the stairs with quick, silent steps. “Someone did it manually from the outer corridor.”

“Vanessa?” Pierce asked, lowering his hand from his holster.

“She’s still in her private study on the third floor,” Marcus said, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “But her assistant has been moving back and forth between the kitchen and the garage.”