The dim amber light cast long shadows on the stone walls.

“Sit on the crate, Claire,” Margaret said, her voice barely a breath.

I sank onto a sturdy wooden box, pulling my knees toward my chest.

Margaret gently laid Emma across my lap.

My daughter stirred, murmuring something incoherent before settling back into sleep.

I stroked her soft hair, my hand shaking.

Muffled thuds echoed through the ceiling.

The heavy front doors of Mercer House had been opened.

Then came the vibration of footsteps.

Many footsteps, wearing heavy-soled boots.

“They are inside,” I whispered.

“Shh,” Margaret said, placing a finger to her lips.

She sat on a smaller crate opposite me, her face pale in the lantern light.

Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

We could hear faint, shouting voices filtering down through the ventilation shaft.

“Sheriff’s department!” a man’s voice boomed, distorted by the distance.

“We have a warrant to search the premises.”

I held Emma tighter.

“Julian is alone up there,” I murmured.

“Mr. Mercer is never truly alone,” Margaret replied quietly.

“But they have a warrant. They want the files on the senator.”