“They are not here,” a second voice called out from the top of the stairs.

“Check the backyard,” the first voice ordered.

“They could not have gone far.”

The trapdoor slammed shut again, leaving us in the dark.

Nathan pulled me closer to him, his hand gripping mine.

“We need to get that paper,” he whispered, referring to the scrap I held.

“It is the only proof we have left.”

But before we could move, my phone, which I had forgotten to silence, began to vibrate in my pocket.

The bright screen lit up, reflecting off the damp cellar walls.

The caller ID showed an incoming call from Eleanor.

And at that exact moment, the footsteps above us stopped.

They turned around and began walking back toward the pantry.

The trapdoor flew open once more.

Nathan’s thumb slammed down on the side button, cutting the vibration short.

The cellar plunged back into absolute silence.

Above us, the heavy leather boots of Eleanor’s security guard creaked against the top step of the wooden stairs.

“Who is down there?” the guard called out.