Martha’s heart pounded. A trapdoor? In the living room?
She tried to lift it. It was locked.
Panic mixed with curiosity. Why would Greg hide this? Was it maintenance access? A storm shelter? But why cover it with a rug and never mention it?
She ran to the garage and grabbed a crowbar. With a loud CRACK, the lock gave way. She heaved the heavy wooden door open.
A waft of stale, cold air hit her face. Below was a set of narrow wooden stairs disappearing into darkness. It wasn’t a crawl space. It was a room.
Trembling, she turned on her phone’s flashlight and took the first step down.
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