There was a deep crawlspace down there, originally designed for access to the plumbing.

During the remodel three years ago, Julian had spent weeks down there.

He had told me he was reinforcing the floor joists to support the weight of my heavy professional range.

He had worn respirators and carried heavy sheets of soundproof drywall into the basement.

I had never questioned him.

On the digital blueprint, that crawlspace had been heavily modified.

It was insulated, soundproofed, and fitted with a dedicated ventilation duct that bypassed the main house system.

The space was labeled *Unit 2*.

The blueprint showed a small, recessed entry hatch.

It was located in the pantry, hidden beneath the custom floor-to-ceiling shelving unit Julian had built.

My stomach plummeted.

I had walked over that exact spot thousands of times.

I had stood there, organizing my imported oils and grains, while someone was breathing directly beneath my feet.

I closed my eyes, the horror washing over me in cold waves.

The sweet, faint smell of bleach and yeast that sometimes drifted up through the floorboards wasn’t from the drain.