A flashlight beam cut through the gloom of the hatchway, sweeping across the dusty rafters.

“Sheriff’s department!” a voice called out from the bottom of the attic stairs. “Show me your hands!”

Ethan didn’t drop the gun.

He took a step toward the edge of the opening, his knuckles white against the metal grip.

At that moment, the door to the hidden compartment behind the cedar wardrobe creaked.

The wood groaned, and a sliver of yellow light appeared in the wall.

I pressed my back against the brick chimney, my hand buried deep in my coat pocket.

My fingers clamped around my phone, feeling the hard plastic edges.

The screen was lit, displaying the active call timer ticking upward in silent, glowing numbers.

I had dialed the emergency line when the wood first began to splinter downstairs, and the line remained open.

“Step back from the opening!” the officer shouted again, his voice closer now, vibrating through the floorboards.

Ethan did not move.

The sweat on his forehead glistened in the sweeping beam of the flashlight from below.

“Ethan,” Megan said, her voice dropping to a low, trembling register.