Chapter 3 - The Hollow Wall
"What is that?" Dominic asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its casual warmth.
I shook my head, stepping closer. "I don't know. When I shifted the furniture this morning to clean behind the wainscoting, the rug kept snagging on something. I thought it was just a warped floorboard."
Dominic knelt down beside the brass plate. It wasn't a floorboard. It was an access latch, flush with the hardwood, secured by a heavy, old-fashioned sliding lock that hadn't been touched in decades. Dust filmed the edges, sealing it against the wood.
Leo moved to his boss's side, pulling a small, heavy-duty pocket knife from his trousers and sliding the blade into the seam. With a sharp, metallic clink, the latch gave way.
Dominic pulled upward. A section of the heavy wainscoting—a four-by-four-foot panel carved to look like solid nineteenth-century oak—pivoted inward on hidden hydraulic hinges with a soft, long-dormant sigh.
A draft of cold, dead air puffed out from the opening, smelling faintly of old paper, lavender sachet, and absolute, suffocating nothingness.
I leaned over Dominic’s shoulder, peering into the dark void.
It wasn't a utility crawlspace. It was a room. Or rather, a sealed alcove, no wider than a closet, carved directly into the structural core of the mansion’s foundation.
"Get the flashlight from the console," Dominic ordered Leo, his voice tight, his fingers gripping the edge of the open wood panel so hard his knuckles turned white.
Leo flicked on a heavy tactical flashlight, handing it down to his boss.
Dominic clicked it on and swept the beam across the hidden interior.
The light illuminated a small, childishly decorated space that looked as though it had been frozen in time. Pale yellow wallpaper dotted with faded white daisies peeled slightly from the damp plaster. A tiny iron bedframe sat against the far wall, its mattress rotted away to a grey clump of ticking. On a small wooden nightstand rested a collection of items: a cracked porcelain teacup, a small stack of children's books with water-damaged spines, and a heavy, silver-framed portrait that had been turned face-down against the wood.
Dominic went completely rigid.
The flashlight beam trembled slightly in his steady hand.
"Boss," Leo murmured, his voice uncharacteristically rough. "What is this?"
Dominic didn't answer. He crawled entirely through the narrow opening, his broad shoulders scraping the freshly exposed oak frame, and reached the small wooden nightstand.
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He picked up the face-down portrait.
He didn't turn it over immediately. He just stared at the back of the heavy silver frame, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air of the hidden alcove.
