flash
The shard of glass spun across the polished marble, coming to a rest against Lorenzo Bolaro’s Italian leather shoe. / Chapter 5 / 10

Chapter 5 - The Tunnels BelowI didn't hesitate.

Lifting the heavy iron latch of the coal chute required every ounce of strength I had left. It groaned softly, protesting against the rust of decades, but the hinges gave way with a muffled squeak.

A cool, damp draft rushed up from the darkness below, carrying the distant, hollow echo of rushing water.

I tucked Nico securely inside my jacket, buttoning my heavy wool coat over him to protect him from the damp chill, and lowered myself feet-first into the dark opening. My boots found the rusted rungs of an iron ladder bolted into the brick wall.

Descending into the Chicago drainage system was like dropping into another world.

The brick-lined tunnels stretched out in both directions, curving away into absolute blackness. The air smelled of damp earth, old iron, and stagnant river water. Above us, the muffled rumble of city traffic hinted at the world we had left behind—a world of light, rules, and safety that felt a million miles away.

I clicked on the small penlight clipped to my medical badge. The narrow beam cut through the swirling fog, illuminating slick brick walls and rusted pipes running along the ceiling.

According to the architectural blueprints I had memorized during my brief orientation in Lorenzo’s study, these old utility tunnels ran directly beneath the entire estate, looping back toward the old boathouse on the lake three blocks away.

If I could reach the boathouse, there was a marine radio, a speed boat, and a straight shot out of the city before Marcus Vance’s tech crew realized how we escaped.

I started walking, keeping my steps light and quiet against the slick concrete floor.

Every drip of water echoing off the vaulted brick ceiling sounded like approaching footsteps. Every shadow twisted into something monstrous in the faint, flickering beam of my penlight.

Clack.

I froze.

The sound wasn't water dripping. It was metal hitting stone.

A hundred yards ahead of me, where the main tunnel intersected with a secondary drainage pipe, a flashlight beam suddenly cut through the gloom, sweeping across the brick wall.

“Clear,” a gruff voice called out through the damp air. “Check the junction box. If they took the utility line down here, there’s got to be a manual override for the estate's perimeter gates.”

Mercenaries. They anticipated the escape route.

I backed up slowly into the shadows of a recessed archway, pressing myself flat against the damp brickwork, holding my breath so tightly my lungs burned.

Nico stirred against my chest, letting out a tiny, high-pitched squeak.

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He Moved His Mistress Into the Beach House I Bought His Parents—So I Sold It and Cut Off His Cards The woman who opened the door to my beach house was barefoot, freshly showered, and wearing my husband’s favorite college T-shirt. Three seconds later, I saw his shoes by the sofa, his overnight charger plugged into the wall, and two half-finished glasses of wine on the coffee table. By the time Evan came out of the bedroom and asked, “How did you know I was here?” I understood that the affair was only the first thing he had been hiding from me. The ocean was loud that afternoon. Not violent, not stormy, just constant—the heavy Atlantic rhythm that had once made me fall in love with the North Carolina coast. Wind moved through the sea oats beyond the porch, carrying salt and the damp smell of sand through the open screen door. I had driven from Wilmington after finishing a bookstore event three hours earlier than expected. The plan had been simple. Surprise Diane and Frank with lunch. My in-laws had lived in the house for six months, ever since I bought it as the retirement place they had talked about for years. Frank’s cardiac procedure had frightened everyone, and Diane had begun saying they were tired of winters inland, tired of stairs, tired of being so far from the ocean. I could afford the house. That mattered. I was a commercial novelist, and after fifteen years of inconsistent beginnings, my backlist had finally become predictable enough to create the strange kind of financial stability writers rarely admitted existed. Royalties came from older books, foreign editions, television options that mostly went nowhere, audiobook licensing, and one series that kept selling long after I expected readers to forget it. The down payment came from an investment account I opened before I met Evan, combined with proceeds from intellectual property I had created before our marriage. The deed was in my name. At the time, that had not felt like strategy. It felt like paperwork. I loved Evan. I loved his parents. When I gave Diane the keys, she cried. “This is too much,” she said. I hugged her. “Then enjoy too much.” Frank stood behind her with tears in his eyes and said, “We’ll take care of it like it’s ours.” I thought that was gratitude. Six months later, another woman opened the door. She wore Evan’s faded black concert shirt, the one with the cracked white logo of an alternative band he had loved in college. Two years into our marriage, I once tried to place the shirt in a donation box. Evan took it from my hands so quickly I laughed. “No.” “It has holes.” “It survived college.” “So did you.” “Exactly. It’s family.” He folded it himself. Later, when Diane stored a box of Evan’s old belongings, the shirt apparently went with it. Now it fell nearly to a strange woman’s knees. She had damp brown hair and pale bare feet. “Hi,” she said. “Can I help you?” For several seconds, I didn’t answer. I looked past her. A light cardigan hung over the sofa. Two wineglasses sat beside takeout containers. Pink slippers rested beside gray sneakers I knew immediately. Evan’s. Beside the shoes was his black travel charger with blue tape around the cord. I had packed that charger for him before his supposed sales conference in Atlanta. On the console near the stairs sat his leather toiletry bag. Ordinary details. That was what made them devastating. Nothing looked rushed. No one had been caught in the middle of some spontaneous mistake. Continued in the first c0mment

He Moved His Mistress Into the Beach House I Bought His Parents—So I Sol...

The dark walnut paneling of Valance absorbed the ambient amber light, making the private dining room feel like a velvet trap. Sabrina shifted slightly beside Nathan, her fingers grazing the base of her crystal water glass. She had spent two hours curling her hair and selecting a dress that whispered corporate elegance, convinced tonight was the night she cemented her place not just in Nathan’s office, but in his life.

The dark walnut paneling of Valance absorbed the ambient amber light, ma...

The amber light of the Fairmont ballroom caught the subtle glimmer of the diamonds against Madison's neck—my diamonds. From my vantage point on the mezzanine, looking down through the polished brass railing, I could see the exact way Ethan placed his hand at the small of her back. It was the same possessive, practiced grip he used to use on me during our early years, before the long hours, the late-night "investor calls," and the quiet erosion of our marriage.

The amber light of the Fairmont ballroom caught the subtle glimmer of th...

My blood ran cold.

Down the tunnel, the flashlight beam instantly stopped sweeping. The footsteps froze.

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