“Matthew’s idea, actually,” Elena said, casually resting her hand on the red leather folder she had placed on a makeshift table—a stack of wooden pallets. “He knew the structural layout of this old complex better than anyone. He realized the service tunnel from the 1920s ran directly beneath your unit and connected to the abandoned boiler room. When he got into… let’s call it severe investment debt with my associates, he offered a compromise. He would fake the Lisbon assignment, live down here, and slowly forge your consent to transfer the property title to us. A prime piece of Brooklyn real estate pays off a lot of bad debts.”
I looked at Matthew. He wouldn’t look back. He kept his eyes glued to the dirty concrete floor, his shoulders shaking with silent, pathetic sobs.
“He sold us out,” I whispered. “He sold his own family out.”
“No! Claire, no!” Matthew finally yelled, his voice cracking. “They were going to kill me! They found me in Lisbon before I even started the project. They brought me back here. They told me if I didn’t give them the apartment, they’d take Leo! I tried to protect him! I only came up when you were gone to see him, to make sure he was fed, to—”
“To grease the gears of your own trap,” I interrupted, the disgust in my stomach burning hotter than the fear.
Elena checked her watch. “It’s 9:42 AM, Claire. At 10:00 AM, my associate will drive Leo out of state. You have eighteen minutes to become a renter instead of a landlord. What’s it going to be?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have eighteen minutes. I had seconds.
I didn’t run down into the basement to fight her. I climbed backward up the ladder, threw myself onto the kitchen floor, and slammed the heavy floor tile shut.
My mind was operating on pure adrenaline and spatial memory. As an architect, I didn’t just know the layout of our apartment; I had studied the historical records of this entire block when we bought it. The 1920s service tunnels didn’t just lead to an abandoned boiler room—they were part of an old coal-delivery matrix that branched out beneath the street, with access points leading to the sidewalk grates and the main alleyway behind the local bakery.
If Elena’s associate had Leo, they wouldn’t park on the main street where traffic cameras were dense. They would park in the private, unmonitored commercial alley behind the bakery—the exact terminus of the coal tunnels.
I ran out of the apartment, slamming the front door behind me. I didn’t take the elevator. I bounded down the stairs three at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
