Chapter 52 The Room Below
Leo’s POV
"Below the east foundation?" I asked, looking from the letter in Brittany's hand to the dark, narrow tunnel stretching out behind me. My heart was thumping against my ribs. I had been in these walls for weeks, eating protein bars and living off the glow of my laptop, but I hadn't gone that deep. "Brittany, the air down there is dead. I marked that section as a structural hazard ten days ago because the sensors on my rig started losing their minds."
"The letter says it's there," Brittany insisted. Her eyes were bright, a sharp contrast to the exhausted shadows under them. "She was specific, Leo. She described the descent, the boiler rooms, and the sub-level. If she said there is a room, there is a room."
I chewed on my lip, looking at Sophia. The old woman looked terrified, her hand white-knuckled around her cane. "If you go down there," Sophia whispered, "be careful. Harrison never liked that part of the house. He said the earth was trying to take it back."
"The earth can try," I muttered, pulling my headlamp down over my forehead. I adjusted the straps of my backpack, feeling the familiar weight of my gear. "Alright. Step back. This is going to be a tight squeeze."
Brittany didn't step back. She stepped into the passage with me. "I'm going."
"No way," I said, blocking her path. "The air quality is garbage and the floorboards are practically paper. One wrong step and you're falling into a thirty-year-old crawlspace. Stay here with Sophia. If I find it, I'll radio you."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but she saw the look on my face. I wasn't joking. This wasn't a digital heist anymore; this was physical. I slid the panel shut, leaving her in the warm light of the studio, and turned toward the dark.
I moved fast through the main arteries of the east wing. I knew the shortcuts by heart now, the places where the drywall was thin and the places where the original brickwork remained. As I descended, the temperature dropped. The expensive climate control of the Blackwell Manor didn't reach this far down. Here, it smelled of iron, wet stone, and something ancient.
I reached the section I had marked on my digital map as the Dead Zone. The passage here narrowed until my shoulders were scraping the studs on both sides. My headlamp cut through the thick dust, making the air look like it was filled with silver glitter.
"Okay, Clara," I whispered to the silence. "Let's see if you were as good a builder as you were a designer."
I followed the directions from the letter, which I had memorized before entering. Past the third junction of the heating pipes, turn toward the foundation stone. I found the junction. The pipes were rusted, sweating cold water that dripped onto my neck. I turned left, crawling on my hands and knees over a bed of old insulation and gravel.
I reached the end of the passage. In my notes, I had called this a dead end. It looked like a solid wall of heavy timber and stone. But now, with the letter's instructions in my head, I looked closer. I brushed away a thick curtain of cobwebs and realized the wood wasn't part of the frame. It was a door.
It was small, heavy, and made of dark oak. It was flush with the surrounding stone, hidden so perfectly that a thousand people could have walked past it without noticing. A massive iron bolt was slid across the middle, fused to the bracket by decades of rust.
"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned.
I pulled a small canister of industrial lubricant from my bag and sprayed the bolt. The smell of chemicals filled the tiny space, making my eyes water. I took a small hammer and a flathead screwdriver, tapping at the edge of the metal.
The sound echoed through the hollow spaces of the house. I stopped, holding my breath, waiting to see if security would come running. Silence. The walls held the sound. I went back to work, sweat stinging my eyes. For twenty minutes, I fought that bolt. My knuckles were bleeding and my arms were shaking by the time the metal finally groaned and slid back.
I put my shoulder against the wood and pushed. The door didn't want to move. It felt like the house itself was leaning against it. I gave one final, desperate shove, and the hinges shrieked as the door swung inward.
I fell forward into the room, my headlamp beam swinging wildly. I scrambled to my feet, coughing as a cloud of stagnant air hit me. It was a small space, maybe six feet by six feet, with walls made of rough, unpainted stone. It felt like a tomb. The air had a strange, still quality, like time had stopped moving the moment the door was sealed.
I swept my light around the room. There was no furniture, no decoration. Just a single, simple wooden shelf bolted to the far wall.
My heart stopped.
On the shelf sat a metal document case. It was dull gray, but when I stepped closer, I saw the initials C.R. engraved into the brass clasp. And sitting right beside it was a large bundle, wrapped tightly in heavy, waterproof oilcloth.
I reached out with shaking fingers and pulled back the edge of the cloth. I didn't need to see the whole thing to know what it was. I had spent hours staring at the mood board in Brittany's studio, looking at the faded, blurry copies of her mother's work.
But these weren't copies.
The charcoal lines were crisp. The watercolor washes were vibrant. I could see the indentations of the pencil where the artist had pressed down in a moment of inspiration. These were the original fashion sketches, the heart of the Redman legacy.
Inside the room, on a simple wooden shelf, is a metal document case with Clara Redman's initials engraved on the clasp. And beside it, wrapped in oilcloth, is a complete set of original fashion sketches that Leo recognizes immediately from the mood board. Not copies. The originals that were supposed to have burned.