Then, a sudden, muffled thud echoed from the top of the stairs.

There was no scream, just the heavy drag of a body against the stone, followed by a quiet grunt.

“Clear,” a low voice whispered from the darkness.

It wasn’t Davis.

The pantry door swung open fully, revealing a tall figure in the shadows.

Julian stood there, a dark wool coat pulled tight, holding a black radio in his gloved hand.

His face was pale, his eyes scanning the small space until they landed on me and Emma.

“We have to move,” he said.

He reached down, taking Emma from my arms before I could even stand.

Emma didn’t cry; she just wrapped her small arms around his neck, her face burying into his shoulder.

“Is it safe?” Margaret asked, her voice steady but strained.

“Not through the main house,” Julian said. “The driveway is blocked by three of Davis’s vehicles.”

He turned toward the back wall of the cellar, where a heavy iron grate sat near the floor.

He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked it with a sharp click.