Then, that afternoon, a man in a gray truck slowed by my mailbox and asked, “You the new owner of the Carter place?”
When I said yes, the color drained from his face.
“Then don’t let your family in,” he muttered. “Not tonight.”
Now they were here.
My phone buzzed with an unknown number.
DO NOT OPEN THE FLOOR IN THE KITCHEN. THEY KNOW.
Another crash hit the front door. The frame splintered.
Rachel shouted, “She found it before us, I know she did!”
Found what?
I ran toward the kitchen anyway, the flashlight beam bouncing across the peeling linoleum, just as the porch light flared through the broken front window—and a floorboard near the sink suddenly lifted from below with a violent crack.
I had thought my family came to humiliate me again. I was wrong. The moment the floor opened, I understood this house wasn’t just cheap—it was hiding something people were willing to destroy my life to get.
The board snapped upward so hard it nearly struck my knees. I stumbled back, grabbing the counter as a square of darkness opened beneath the kitchen floor. Cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of damp earth and something metallic.
