Christopher turned away, walked downstairs, and entered the garage. Luxury vehicles stood in polished rows, silent monuments to success. He opened a steel tool cabinet and grabbed the heaviest hammer he could find. He also took a flashlight, then slipped his phone into his pocket with a thought that came unbidden.
If something is there, I will need proof. He returned upstairs. Victoria was still in the hallway, her phone clutched in her hand, her breathing unsteady.
“Chris, please,” she said. “Think about Oliver. Think about us.”
“I am thinking about a baby who is crying,” he answered. “If you know something, tell me now.”
Victoria closed her eyes and whispered, “I warned you.”
Christopher lifted the hammer. The first strike cracked the plaster with a sharp sound that echoed through the corridor. Dust fell to the floor. The crying grew louder, more frantic. He struck again. And again. Each blow widening the fracture, each cry sounding more desperate. The pristine wall shattered piece by piece, revealing darkness behind it.
Christopher aimed the flashlight into the opening. His breath stopped.