Page 41 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Now,” Silas says, moving toward a map spread across a small table, “we wait for Garrow’s men to finish their search and leave. Then we assess the damage and adapt our defences accordingly.”

“And Rebecca?”

Dr. Rao answers this one. “Two more days of observation to ensure no infection sets in. Then Silas has arranged transport to a sanctuary in Vermont where her cousin works at a women’s shelter.”

The practised precision of their answers tells me everything about how long this has been running, how many lives have passed through these walls on their way to safety.

I step closer to Rebecca, meeting her frightened eyes directly. “I promise you’ll get somewhere safe,” I tell her, the words feeling like a vow I’d better be prepared to keep. “Thishouse protects its own.”

The phrase, Silas’s phrase, feels right in my mouth, a declaration of purpose I never expected to make but now can’t imagine rejecting.

Silas glances back at the chamber door as we leave Dr. Rao and Rebecca behind. “They’ll be fine,” he says, though the tension in his voice says otherwise. I’ve started cataloguing his tells — squared shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes, fingers flexing like he’s running invisible calculations. “Come. We need eyes on the search party.” The passage narrows until I’m hunching over, my spine protesting as cold droplets find their way past my collar and trail down my back. Perfect. Just what I needed — spelunking through a damp crawlspace while everything slowly soaks through.

My knees catch on the rough stone, sending a jolt of pain up my legs. “This tunnel have a destination, or are we just fleeing until we hit bedrock?” I whisper, trying to mask my discomfort with sarcasm.

“Observation point six,” Silas replies, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. “We can see the main foyer and staircase from there. If Garrow’s men are planning to start the fire, that’s where they’ll gather to coordinate.”

The tunnel slopes upward, the air growing stuffier as we climb. I’ve lost all sense of where we are — under the dining room? Behind the library? The rough stone gives way to brick and newer wooden beams, and I realize we must be slipping into the house’s bones, the hidden spaces between floors where nobody’s supposed to go.

Silas stops abruptly, his hand raised towards a metal grate above us. His fingers work smoothly along its edge, shifting the grate just enough to let a sliver of light pour through. “Look,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “During Prohibition, they converted these old air shafts. See how the foyer’s ceiling medallions hide them? Perfect for keeping tabs on unwelcome visitors.”

I wedge myself against him, our bodies forced together in the tight space, both of us straining to see through the narrow grate. My pulse hammers as I take in the destruction. The woodwork I spent three weekends on my hands and knees restoring, sanding until my fingers bled, now scuffed with boot marks and cluttered with debris. Something feral rises in my throat, a sound I have to swallow back. My home. No. Our home, I correct, the possessive burning through my thoughts like a brand.

Movement catches my eye as the front door swings open, admitting a familiar broad-shouldered figure in a worn flannel shirt and work boots. Rafe stomps into the foyer with the confidant stride of someone who belongs there, nodding to the officers currently ransacking my living room.

“Mayor sent me to check the structural integrity,” he announces, his gruff voice carrying clearly through the grate. “Wanted to make sure you boys aren’t about to bring the whole place down on your heads with all this commotion.”

One of the officers, a heavyset man I vaguely recognize from town, straightens up from where he’s been rifling through a cabinet drawer. “Found anything suspicious yet?”

Rafe knocks his knuckles against the plaster, the hollow sound echoing through the foyer. His eyes narrow in assessment. “They don’t build ‘em like this anymore. Eighteen-inch walls. Oak beams thick as a man’s thigh.” He runs his hand along the boards, casual yet deliberate. “Course, these old places always have quirks, air pockets between the walls. Crawlspaces that look suspicious if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”

Rafe’s strategy clicks into place. By casually mentioning air pockets and architectural quirks, he’s planting seeds of doubt. Any hidden door they stumble on might now be dismissed as just another old house oddity.

“Check the east wing yet?” Rafe asks, casually moving toward the one area of the house where I know several passage entrances are concealed.

“Just finishing the main floor,” the officer replies.

“I’ll start upstairs then. If there are structural issues, they’ll likely show in the ceiling beams first.” Rafe heads toward the staircase, deliberately leading the search away from productive areas.

The front door bangs open and Lyle Garrow strides in, coat flapping, face flushed, eyes darting around the destroyed foyer as if expecting to find me cowering behind the furniture.

“Nothing?” he demands, voice tight with barely controlled rage. “You’ve had over three hours and found nothing?”

“Sir, we’ve searched every room, checked every closet and crawlspace—” the officer begins.

“Not thoroughly enough, clearly.” Garrow cuts him off with a sharp gesture. His gaze locks onto Rafe, who’s paused halfway up the stairs. “Calder. What a surprise to find you here.”

“Mayor.” Rafe nods, his expression neutral. “Just doing my job. Structural assessment, as you asked.”

“Funny how you always seem to be around when things go wrong at this property.”

“Been maintaining it for thirty years,” Rafe replies with a casual shrug. “Know its bones better than anyone.”

“It's bones,” Garrow repeats, his voice dripping with suspicion. “An interesting choice of words.” He moves to the foot of the stairs, looking up at Rafe with calculated menace. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Miss Hale has disappeared to, would you?”

“Haven’t seen her.” Rafe’s tone remains even, unbothered. “Maybe she went to visit family when she saw your goon squad pulling up.”

I feel Silas tense beside me, his breathing becoming more controlled, deliberate. Through the grate, I can see Garrow’s expression harden, his mask of civility slipping to reveal something truly ugly beneath.