The warehouse was silent, save for the dripping of water and our own rapid breathing.

Then, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the space.

They were coming from the direction of the side entrance.

The puddles of water on the concrete floor splashed softly with each step.

“Yasmin?” a voice called out.

It wasn’t my father’s voice.

It was smoother, more clinical, and utterly devoid of warmth.

It was Dr. Vale.

My heart leaped into my throat.

“I know you’re in here,” Vale said, his voice bouncing off the corrugated iron walls.

“Mark is very disappointed in you.”

“He knows what you took from his study.”

I looked at Yasmin in the dim light filtering through the high windows.

Her face was pale as a ghost, and she was trembling so hard her teeth chattered.

She clutched the leather bag to her chest like a shield.

We shrank back into the shadow of the wooden crates, trying to make ourselves as small as possible.

Vale’s flashlight beam swept across the dusty floor, moving closer and closer to our hiding spot.