The woman in the gray coat stepped back, her eyes shifting over my shoulder toward the garden.

She pulled us inside and shut the door with a dull, heavy click.

She turned a brass deadbolt, then slid a thick iron bar across the frame.

The sudden silence of the building enveloped us like a heavy blanket.

It smelled of old paper, concrete, and floor wax.

“Down the stairs, quickly,” she said.

Her voice was low, smooth, and entirely devoid of panic.

She looked at Adrian, her eyes lingering on his face for only a fraction of a second.

Then her gaze drifted to the children.

“Mother,” Adrian said, his voice tight and strained.

Isabella Vale did not embrace him.

She simply nodded and began walking down a steep flight of concrete steps.

“We don’t have time for greetings,” she said, her heels clicking softly on the stone.

I followed Adrian down into the dim light of the basement.

My heart hammered against my ribs as we descended into the shadows.

The air grew cooler and smelled of damp earth and rusted pipes.