then tugged at her father’s arm. “What’s that?” she asked.
Alan’s eyes followed his daughter’s pointing finger. For a moment he saw nothing — just a blank wall. Then, as he looked again, he realized that under the stairs the wall wasn’t made out of concrete.
It looked to him like it was made out of metal.
He stepped into the shadows below the stairs, and took a closer look.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said softly.
“What is it, Daddy?” Beth asked. Suddenly her heart skipped a beat and she felt a slight thrill of anticipation.
“It looks like some kind of fire door,” Alan replied. He reached up and felt in the darkness, and his fingers found a rail bolted to the concrete behind the metal. Moving his hands along the rail, he came to a metal roller.
He pounded on the metal, and heard a low echoing sound.
“Is it hollow?” Beth asked.
Alan nodded. “It sure seems like it’s some kind of fire door. Give me a hand, and we’ll see if we can open it.”
Gingerly, Alan felt for the end of the door nearest the staircase, and curled his fingers around its edge. Then he leaned his weight into it, and tugged.
The door didn’t budge.
Frowning, he stepped back, surveyed the door, then moved to the other end.
Near the ceiling, he found what he was looking for. A metal pin, protruding from the concrete. When he tried to remove it, it too held fast.
“What is it, Daddy?” Beth asked.
“Don’t know,” Alan muttered. “And it’s going to take a couple of wrenches to find out.”
“Is there another room back there?”
“That’s what’s weird,” her father replied. “According to the plans I have, all that’s back there is the loading dock, and it’s supposed to be solid concrete.”
“Then why would they need a fire door?”
“Good question. Unless it’s not a fire door. It might be something else entirely. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As her father trotted up the stairs, Beth stared at the strange, barely visible door in fascination.
There was a room behind the door — she was sure of it.
And she knew what the room was.
It was Amy’s room.
It was the room where Amy lived, and that’s why, when she’d heard the strange voice the other day, it had sounded so faint.
It had been muffled by the door.
She moved closer to the door, letting her imagination run free.
There could be anything behind the door. She imagined an old forgotten room, still filled with the kind of furniture they sold in antique stores. It was probably an office of some kind, so there would be desks, and maybe a big black leather chair. There might even be one of those old-fashioned braided rugs still on the floor.
It would all be covered with dust, but there would still be papers on the desks, and stuff in the wastebasket, for in Beth’s mind she was sure the room had simply been closed up one day, and forgotten. And then, when the mill had been closed, no one had even remembered that this room was there.
Suddenly she heard footsteps on the stairs, and her father reappeared, carrying a large monkey wrench.
“This should do it,” he said, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “All set?”
Beth nodded, and stood back while Alan adjusted the wrench to the pin, then applied pressure to it.
The pin held for a moment, then squealed, and slowly began to turn. With some further effort, it fell away, and once more Alan gripped the end of the metal door and leaned his weight into it.
This time the door groaned and moved slightly. After two more pulls its rusty rollers screeched in protest, and it slid reluctantly to one side.
Instantly, a rush of ice-cold air flowed out of the gap.
Beth froze, the chill seeming to cut through her, and she could feel goose bumps rippling her skin as the hair on her neck stood on end. It was as if something physical had emerged from whatever lay behind the door. Beth’s first instinct was to turn and run.
And then the blast of icy air stopped, almost as if it had never happened. She looked up at her father.
“What was that?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“What?” Alan replied.
“The cold,” Beth explained. “Didn’t you feel the cold coming through the crack?”
Alan frowned slightly, then shook his head. “I didn’t feel anything at all.” He pulled on the door again, opening it far enough for them both to peer inside.
Alan shone his flashlight into the darkness beyond the metal door.
It was a room, perhaps twenty feet long and fifteen feet deep.
Its walls were blackened, and the floor was covered with a thick layer of dust.
It was completely empty.
Then, as Beth gazed around the long-forgotten room, she noticed a familiar odor in the stale air.
The little room smelled strongly of smoke.
12
There was nothing comfortable about the silence that reigned in the Mercedes-Benz as Phillip maneuvered it up the long drive and brought it to a stop in front of Hilltop. It was as if, by mutual consent, all of them were waiting until they were once more inside the mansion before they faced the argument that all of them now knew was inevitable.
For Carolyn, it was particularly difficult, for she was in the unique position of finding herself in agreement with her mother-in-law, albeit for reasons that Abigail would never understand. Still, the fact remained that for the first time Carolyn was about to side with the woman who hated her, against the husband who loved her.
She waited for Phillip to come around and open the door for her, and offered him an uncertain smile that was part gratitude and part apology. Getting out of the car, she started up the front steps. Hannah opened the door for her, and she nodded a greeting to the old woman before crossing the foyer to turn right down the wide corridor that led to the library. Beyond the French doors and the terrace outside, she could see Tracy and three of her friends playing tennis.
Beth was nowhere to be seen.
She dropped her purse on a table, and glanced at the fireplace, where — as always — a fire was laid, ready to be lit. For a moment she was tempted to put a match to it, despite the warmth of the day. But warming the room even further would do nothing to alleviate the chill that was emanating from Abigail.
“It won’t help,” Abigail said as she entered the room, apparently reading Carolyn’s mind. Then, stripping off her gloves and expertly removing the pin from her veiled hat, she turned to her son. “I don’t think there can be any question now of continuing with your project. We shall order Mr. Rogers to begin closing the mill tomorrow.”
Phillip’s brows rose a fraction of an inch, and his arms folded over his chest. He leaned back against the desk that had once been his father’s. “Indeed?” he asked. “And when did it become my project, Mother? Until yesterday, it was our project, unless I’m suddenly getting senile.”
Abigail’s sharp eyes raked over her son, and her lips curved into a tightly cynical smile. “If that remark was intended to suggest that I’m losing my grip, I don’t appreciate it. I’ve simply changed my mind, and in light of what happened to Jeff Bailey—”
“What happened to Jeff Bailey was an accident, Mother. We’ve seen the reports, and there’s nothing to
