The Woman in the Chair

I woke up to the smell of woodsmoke and old wool. For a second, I thought I was back in the safe house, back in the nightmare. But the sun was streaming through the A-frame windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, suspended ghosts.

Margaret was sitting by the fire, wrapped in a quilt. She was staring at the flames, her face unreadable.

"We have to go," I said, sitting up. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest.

"I know," she said. She didn't turn around. "I was just... remembering."

"Remembering what?"

"The last time I wore a dress like that," she said, pointing to the garment bag my sister had brought in earlier. "It was the night Arthur told me he loved me. I believed him."

I stood up. I walked over to her. I put my hand on her shoulder.

"He never loved you," I said. "He loved what you could give him."

"I know," she whispered. "But I loved him. That's the tragedy, isn't it? The villain doesn't care. The hero is the one who bleeds."

We spent the day preparing. My sister, Kate, was efficient, brutal in her pragmatism. She dyed my hair back to its natural brown in the kitchen sink. She gave Margaret a manicure, filing down the jagged, bitten nails she had nursed in captivity.

We didn't talk much. There was nothing left to say.

At 6:00 PM, we left for the city.

The Millennium Tower pierced the skyline like a needle, a monolith of glass and steel reflecting the dying sun. It was beautiful. It was a tomb.

We parked the rental car in a public lot three blocks away. We walked to the service entrance.

The security was tight, just as I had predicted. Guards in suits with earpieces patrolled the perimeter. Black limousines were already lining up at the main entrance, disgorging senators, celebrities, and billionaires.

"The basement," Margaret whispered. "The boiler room entrance is in the alley."

We slipped into the shadows. The alley was narrow, smelling of garbage and ozone.

We found the door. It was rusted, forgotten.

I pulled out the silver key from the cannon.

*Please work.*

I inserted it. I turned it.

*Click.*

The door groaned open.

We stepped into the heat and noise of the boiler room. Pipes hissed. Machinery clanked.

"This way," Margaret said. She moved with a surprising agility, her frail body energized by purpose.

We navigated the maze of pipes until we reached a dead end. A concrete wall.

"There's no door," I said.

"Look closer," Margaret said.

She pointed to a seam in the concrete. Barely visible.

"It's a pressure panel," she said. "Push here. And here."

I pressed my hands against the cold stone. Nothing happened.

"Harder," she said. "Use your weight."

I leaned into it. Margaret pushed beside me.

*Grind.*

The wall moved.

It slid back, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel.

The air that rushed out was stale. Cold. It smelled of earth and silence.

"The void," Margaret whispered.

We stepped inside. I turned on my flashlight.

The tunnel was short. It ended in a small, square chamber.

The void.

It was exactly as the blueprints had described. 12x12x10. Concrete walls. Concrete floor.

But in the center of the floor, there was a patch of fresh cement. Or at least, it had been fresh ten years ago. It was lighter than the surrounding stone. A scar.

Margaret fell to her knees. She ran her hands over the rough surface.

"He's here," she sobbed. "My baby. He's here."

I looked around the room. There was nothing else. No tools. No evidence.

Just the grave.

"We need the locket," I said. "Margaret, where exactly is it?"

"With him," she said. "In the blanket. Wrapped around his hand."

I looked at the concrete. It was solid. Impenetrable.

"We can't dig him up," I said. "Not without a jackhammer. Not without noise."

Margaret looked up at me. Her eyes were wild.

"We don't need a jackhammer," she said. "We just need to expose him."

She pointed to a small metal plate in the corner of the room.

"That's the inspection hatch," she said. "For the structural pilings. If we open that, we can see the rebar. We can see... into the pour."

I walked over to the plate. I used the multi-tool Kate had given me to unscrew the bolts.

I lifted the plate.

I shone the flashlight into the hole.

It was a narrow shaft, leading down into the foundation.

I squinted.

There, caught in the mesh of steel rebar, was a bundle.

It wasn't deep. Arthur had been lazy. Or rushed.

The fabric was gray with dust, stiff with age.

But glinting in the beam of light, caught in the folds of the blanket, was gold.

The locket.

I reached down. My arm scraped against the rough concrete. I stretched my fingers.

I touched the cold metal.

I hooked my finger through the chain.

I pulled.

The locket came free.

It was heavy. Old gold. Engraved with initials. *M & A.*

I opened it.

Inside, a lock of dark hair. And a tiny, faded photo.

Arthur. Young. Smiling.

And next to him, Margaret.

But it wasn't the photo that mattered.

It was the inscription on the inside of the lid.

*To my son. My life. A.H. Jr.*

I looked at Margaret. She was weeping silently.

"We have it," I said.

I helped her up.

"Now what?" I asked.

She wiped her eyes. She smoothed her dress.

"Now," she said, her voice turning to steel. "We go upstairs. And we introduce Arthur to his son."