"What does that mean?"
"There used to be a storage room beneath the kitchen. It was sealed years ago."
"Why?"
"Because the previous owner said the foundation was unstable."
Bennett looked toward the hallway.
"Show me."
Claire led us to a narrow door beside the kitchen. It was painted white, almost the same color as the wall, and its handle was covered in dust.
She opened it.
A short staircase descended into darkness.
The smell reached us immediately: damp concrete, rust, and something sour that reminded me of standing beside the old pumping station.
Bennett switched on his flashlight.
"Stay behind me."
We descended carefully.
The stairs ended in a low room with exposed pipes running along the ceiling. Several cardboard boxes had collapsed against the walls. A broken chair lay on its side.
At the far end was a metal door.
Three knocks sounded from behind it.
I felt the hair rise along my arms.
Bennett approached.
"Police. Is anyone inside?"
No answer.
He tried the handle.
Locked.
"Claire, do you have a key?"
She shook her head.
"I've never opened that door."
Bennett examined the lock.
"Someone has replaced it recently."
He turned toward his partner.
"Call for backup. And get someone from the fire department with cutting equipment."
I stepped closer.
There was a narrow gap beneath the door. A thin line of yellow light showed through it.
Someone was inside.
I crouched.
"Can you hear me?"
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a voice answered.
"Who are you?"
My throat tightened.
It was a man's voice.
Weak, but familiar.
"I'm Robert Hale's son."
Silence.
Then the man whispered:
"Which Robert?"
I looked at Bennett.
"What does that mean?"
The man behind the door spoke again.
"Tell me what happened to Daniel Ruiz."
I swallowed.
"He died in 1994."
A short, bitter laugh came from the other side.
"No. That's what they wanted you to believe."
"Who are you?"
The man moved closer to the door.
"My name is Samuel Price. I worked at Northfield."
Bennett immediately raised his voice.
"Samuel, are you injured?"
"I've been injured for a long time."
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough."
Bennett signaled his partner to keep talking while he examined the hinges.
I looked back at Claire.
She was trembling.
"You knew about this room," I whispered.
"I knew there was a sealed storage area. I didn't know anyone was inside."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Twenty years."
"Twenty years, and you never heard anything?"
Her face crumpled.
"I heard things."
"What things?"
"Sometimes, at night, I heard footsteps. I thought it was the pipes. Then I heard voices. I told myself it was the neighbors."
"Why didn't you investigate?"
"Because Edward Mercer told me never to open that door."
I stared at her.
"You knew."
"I suspected."
"That's not the same as not knowing."
Before she could answer, the fire department arrived.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to cut through the lock. When the door finally opened, a wave of cold air rushed into the hallway.
The room beyond was barely large enough for a bed.
A man sat on a narrow mattress against the wall. His hair was white, his face deeply lined, and his wrists were marked with old scars.
He looked at Bennett.
Then he looked at me.
"You're Robert's boy."
I nodded.
"Where is my father?"
Samuel closed his eyes.
"I don't know which one you mean."
Bennett stepped inside.
"Start from the beginning."
Samuel looked at the ceiling.
"There were two men using the same name."
I felt the room tilt.
"What?"
"Robert Hale. The man who signed the transport records, and the man who tried to expose them. They weren't the same person."
Claire covered her mouth.
Samuel continued.
"One was your father. The other was a company operative who used his identity to move shipments."
"Who was the operative?"
Samuel looked at Claire.
"Ask her."
Claire backed away.
"No."
"Ask her what happened on October eighteenth."
I turned toward her.
"What happened?"
She shook her head.
Samuel's voice became sharper.
"She chose which man would leave Northfield."
Bennett moved between them.
"Claire, explain."
But before she could answer, Samuel reached beneath his mattress and pulled out a small envelope.
"Your father left this here," he said. "He told me to give it to his son if anyone ever came looking."
I took it.
My name was written across the front.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.