The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

The beam of light swept across the room, searching the corners.

“Vivian?” a voice called out, smooth and mocking.

It was Harrison.

The flashlight beam swept across the stone floor, stopping inches from my shoes.

I pressed my back harder against the cold, wet granite of the pillar.

“I know you are down here, Vivian,” Harrison said.

His voice bounced off the low ceiling, sounding hollow and distorted.

The smell of his expensive cologne mixed with the damp rot of the cellar.

He took three slow steps forward.

The leather of his shoes squeaked on the wet stone.

“You always did have a habit of hiding when things got difficult,” he said.

I held my breath, my hand clutching the zippered pocket of my jacket.

The original deed was cold against my chest.

The flashlight beam flicked upward, hitting the edge of the pillar.

“Sloane told me she saw you near the gallery,” Harrison said.

“She said you looked quite determined.”

He laughed, a short, dry sound that had no warmth in it.