He pointed weakly down the hall toward a heavy wooden door that stood slightly ajar.

A yellow light flickered from the crack in the door.

I stood up and crept toward it, holding the flashlight low.

The room inside was a small utility office, ruined by the fire years ago.

Charred filing cabinets leaned against the walls like decaying teeth.

In the center of the room, Chloe sat on a rusted metal chair, her hands tied behind her back with thick plastic zip ties.

Her face was pale, smeared with soot and tears, her lip swollen.

Beatrice stood over her, holding a heavy wooden beam she had clearly taken from the debris.

“You had to go to the police,” Beatrice hissed, her voice trembling with a terrifying rage. “You had to tell them about the accounts.”

“They knew anyway, Mother,” Chloe sobbed, flinching as Beatrice waved the timber. “They were already looking at the charity’s books.”

“We could have left the country,” Beatrice said, her eyes wild under the flickering light of a single lantern on the floor. “Darrow had the papers ready. We had the cash.”