**“MOM’S AGREED TO SELL THE HOUSE,” MY SISTER ANNOUNCED, RAISING HER CHAMPAGNE GLASS. “AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE DONE FOR HER, SHE WANTS ME TO HANDLE THE MONEY.”**

“No, no, no!” Melissa screamed in the dark, grabbing Leo and pulling him into her arms.

“Quiet!” David hissed. He moved toward the front window, keeping his back against the wall, the gun raised.

The pounding on the door grew louder. The wood began to splinter around the deadbolt.

“Claire, the cellar,” Mom whispered, grabbing my sleeve. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “We have to go to the cellar.”

“You said Dad sealed it with concrete!” I argued, pulling her toward the kitchen.

“He sealed the outside doors,” Mom said, her voice shaking but urgent. “He built a trapdoor under the pantry floorboards. He wanted a way to get the money if we ever needed it.”

The front door gave a sickening CRACK.

“Go!” David yelled, stepping into the hallway and pointing his gun at the front entrance.

I didn’t look back. I grabbed Mom’s hand, shoved Melissa and Leo in front of me, and ran into the kitchen. I threw open the pantry door and ripped the linoleum rug away. Underneath, a heavy iron ring was bolted to the wooden floorboards.

I grabbed the ring and heaved. The trapdoor groaned, then lifted, revealing a pitch-black, narrow wooden staircase smelling of damp earth and old concrete.

“Down,” I ordered. Melissa climbed down first, carrying Leo. Mom followed, moving faster than I had seen her move in years.

I heard a gunshot ring out in the living room.

Melissa screamed from below.

I hesitated, looking back toward the hallway. “David!” I yelled.

“Get in the hole, Claire!” David roared back.

I climbed down the stairs and pulled the heavy trapdoor shut above us. I slid the thick iron deadbolt into place just as heavy footsteps pounded into the kitchen above.

We were in total darkness. The air was cold and thick with dust.

“Claire?” Melissa whispered, crying softly. “I can’t see anything.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight. The pale beam illuminated the small, concrete-walled room.

It was exactly as it had been when I was a kid. Old mason jars lined wooden shelves. A rusty bicycle leaned against the far wall.

But in the center of the room sat a massive, heavy iron safe.

“The money,” I breathed.

Mom stepped forward, running her trembling hands over the top of the safe. “He said it was enough to save us all. He made me promise not to open it until you were ready.”

“I have the key,” I said, pulling the silver 402 key from my pocket.

“Hurry,” Melissa begged, looking up at the ceiling. We could hear muffled shouting and the sound of furniture being overturned above us.

I knelt in front of the safe. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely align the key with the lock. I pushed it in. It fit perfectly.

I turned it. A heavy mechanical clack echoed in the small room.

I grabbed the iron handle and pulled the heavy door open.

I shined my phone flashlight inside.

There was no money. No duffel bag of cash.

Instead, the safe was filled with hundreds of neatly stacked manila folders.

I pulled the top folder out and opened it. Inside were photographs, bank records, and property deeds.

“What is it?” Melissa asked, kneeling beside me.

“It’s not money,” I said, my heart sinking as I read the names on the documents. “It’s blackmail. Dad didn’t steal Thorne’s cash. He stole his files.”