My voice sounded firmer than I felt.

Camille lowered the silver pistol slightly, her manicured finger still resting on the trigger.

“Everything of Adrian’s belongs to the family,” she said.

She gestured to the two men behind her.

“Search the corridor,” she ordered. “Find the basement stairs.”

One of the men stepped forward, his heavy tactical boots thudding against the wet concrete floor.

He stopped just inches from me, his eyes scanning the seam of the heavy iron door I stood against.

The smell of damp earth and oil hung thick in the narrow hallway.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“There is nothing back there,” I said, stepping away from the door to draw his attention. “Just old plumbing.”

The guard reached for the handle of a nearby utility closet instead of the panic room door.

He kicked it open, revealing only dusty shelves and empty crates.

“Clear,” the guard muttered.

I took a slow, silent breath, keeping my shoulders straight and my eyes on Camille.

The secret panel to the panic room was disguised as a section of rusted sheet metal just beside the closet.