The Glass House Basement

I hid in the neighbor's hedge until I saw Miller leave. He walked out of the front door, tucking his phone into his pocket, looking like a man who had just finished a routine business call, not a man who had just assaulted his boss's wife.

Julian followed him. They spoke on the porch for a moment. Miller pointed toward the street where I had run. Julian nodded, then went back inside.

I waited ten minutes. Then twenty.

I crept back to the house. The kitchen light was off. The only light came from the master bedroom upstairs.

I didn't go in through the broken window. I went to the side of the house, to the bulkhead doors that led to the basement.

They were locked from the inside.

I pulled the bobby pin from my hair again. It took three tries, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped the pin into the grass.

*Click.*

I lifted the heavy metal doors. They groaned, but the sound was masked by the wind.

I slipped into the dark, musty space.

The basement was a labyrinth of storage boxes and old furniture. I navigated by memory, my hand trailing along the wall.

I reached the server room.

I didn't need the server anymore. I had the blueprints. I had the birth certificate. I had enough to bury Arthur Hawthorne.

But I needed the final piece. The ledger.

Julian said it was in the floor safe at the Glass House. But Arthur wasn't at the Glass House. He was at the facility, overseeing the disposal.

Which meant the Glass House was empty.

Or was it?

I checked my watch. 2:00 AM. Thursday.

I had 24 hours.

I left the house through the basement door. I retrieved the Ducati from where I had hidden it down the street.

I rode to the Glass House.

The estate was dark. The security patrol car was parked by the gate, empty. The guard was probably asleep or on a coffee run.

I parked the bike in the woods and walked the rest of the way.

I used the code Arthur had given me years ago. *0918.*

The side door clicked open.

The house smelled of lemon polish and old money. I took off my shoes and walked silently through the kitchen, past the dining room, down the hall to the library.

The door was closed.

I turned the handle. Locked.

I knelt down and peered through the keyhole. It was an old-fashioned skeleton key lock. Arthur liked his antiques.

I didn't have a skeleton key.

But I had something better.

I pulled a credit card from my pocket—not mine, I didn't have any left. It was a Starbucks gift card I had found in the glove box of the Honda.

I slid it into the jamb. I wiggled it. I pushed.

*Click.*

The door swung open.

I stepped inside. The room was cold. The fireplace was a dark maw.

I turned on my flashlight, keeping the beam low.

The rug. Julian said the safe was under the rug.

I moved the heavy Persian carpet aside.

There it was.

A square metal plate set into the floorboards. No dial. No keypad.

Just a keyhole.

"Damn it," I whispered.

Julian hadn't mentioned a key.

I shone the light around the room. Arthur's desk. The shelves. The fireplace mantle.

Where would a man like Arthur keep the key to his soul?

Not in a drawer. Too obvious.

Not on his person. Too risky.

I looked at the portrait of his father above the fireplace. The eyes seemed to follow me.

I walked over to it. I ran my fingers along the frame.

Nothing.

I checked the books. *The Art of War.* *Machiavelli.* *The Bible.*

I pulled the Bible off the shelf. It was heavy, leather-bound.

I shook it.

Nothing fell out.

I was running out of time.

I looked at the desk again. The ship's hull desk.

It had a small, decorative cannon on the corner. Brass. Heavy.

I picked it up.

It rattled.

I turned it over. The base unscrewed.

Inside, wrapped in a piece of velvet, was a key.

Small. Silver. Ancient.

I went back to the safe. I inserted the key.

It turned. The tumblers clicked.

I lifted the lid.

The air inside smelled stale. Like old paper and secrets. Like 1990.

The safe was full. Stacks of cash. Passports.

And a black leather ledger.

I pulled it out. I opened it to the first page.

*1985. Foundation 1. 2 bodies.*

I flipped through the pages.

*1990. Bridge 4. 1 body.*

*2000. Stadium. 5 bodies.*

And then, near the back.

*2016. Millennium Tower. Void A.*

*1 body.*

*Name: Arthur Hawthorne Jr.*

I stared at the name.

Arthur Hawthorne Jr.

The baby wasn't just his grandson.

It was his son.

His and Margaret's.

A secret child born thirty years after Julian. A late-in-life miracle. Or a mistake.

And Arthur had buried him in the wall.