Chapter 7 - The Secret in the Basement-7
I spent the rest of Wednesday afternoon at the hospital with Gwen, making sure she was comfortable, fed, and prepared for her upcoming chemotherapy session.
At five o'clock in the evening, after Gwen fell into a peaceful, medicated sleep, I drove back to Birchwood Lane. I wanted to execute the final phase of my plan before Friday arrived.
When I arrived at the house, my mother’s luxury sedan and Paige’s new pickup truck were parked out front. Inside, the living room was filled with shopping bags, empty champagne flutes, and several interior design catalogs scattered across the floor.
Margaret was sitting on the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand, looking flushed and triumphant.
"Gavin!" Margaret called out as I entered. "There you are! We spent the whole day picking out luxury fixtures for the house! The designer said they can start work next Monday!"
"That sounds great, Mom," I said smoothly, walking into the kitchen. "Where's Paige?"
"She's upstairs trying on the three thousand dollar evening gown she bought for our trip to Miami!" Margaret bragged, taking a sip of her wine. "Oh, Gavin, you have no idea how happy I am! We are finally living the life we deserve!"
"Living the life you deserve," I repeated quietly to myself. "Right."
I walked down the back hallway, passing the tiny pantry where Gwen had been trapped for three years. I stopped at the very end of the corridor, standing in front of the heavy wooden door that led down to the cellar basement.
Four years ago, before I left for Yellowknife, that basement was a simple, unfinished concrete space used for storing old holiday decorations and tools. But as I looked at the door now, I noticed a brand-new, heavy-duty digital keypad deadbolt installed right above the handle.
My mother had never locked the basement in her life.
Curiosity piqued, I stepped closer to the door. The keypad glowed faint blue in the dim hallway light.
"Gavin?" Margaret’s voice suddenly called out behind me, sharp and noticeably tense.
I turned around slowly. My mother was standing at the entrance of the hallway, her wine glass held tightly in her hand, her eyes narrowed with a sudden, defensive suspicion.
"What are you doing down there?" she asked, her voice losing its warm tone.
"Just looking for my old toolbox," I lied casually, pointing at the locked door. "When did you install a keypad lock on the basement door, Mom?"
Margaret took a quick step forward, placing herself between me and the door. "Oh... that. I had a contractor install that two years ago. I store... valuable antique wine and private family heirlooms down there now. I don't want anyone going down there and messing things up."
"I see," I said, watching her body language very carefully. Her breathing had quickened, and her free hand was nervously clutching the silk fabric of her robe. She was hiding something down there. Something significant. "Can I get the code? I just need my socket wrench set to fix the rental car's side mirror."
"No!" Margaret said a little too quickly, her voice sharp. She quickly softened her tone, forcing a nervous chuckle. "I mean... I don't remember the code off the top of my head! The contractor wrote it down in my private notebook in my bedroom. I'll get your socket wrench for you tomorrow, sweetie. Don't worry about it!"
"Alright, Mom," I said, raising my hands in surrender. "No problem."
I walked back toward the living room, but my mind was firing on all cylinders. Margaret was an awful actress when caught off guard. The terror in her eyes when she saw me standing near that door was unmistakable. There were no "antique wines" down in that damp, midwestern basement.
Whatever was behind that heavy wooden door was a secret she was desperate to keep hidden from the world.
That night, I waited until two o'clock in the morning.
The house was dead silent. The rhythmic snoring of my mother and sister echoed from their respective bedrooms upstairs.
I crept out of my guest room wearing dark clothes, holding a heavy-duty tactical flashlight and a digital locksmith bypass tool I had bought from a hardware shop earlier that week.
I glided down the stairs without making a single sound, stepping lightly across the hardwood floor until I reached the basement door at the end of the back hallway.
I crouched down in front of the illuminated keypad.
Instead of trying to hack the digital code, I pulled out my tactical flashlight, setting it to an ultra-violet blacklight beam. I shone the purple light directly onto the rubber buttons of the lock.
Just as I suspected, my mother’s skin oils were clearly visible on four specific numbers: 1, 4, 7, and 9.
It took me less than three minutes of testing simple combinations.
On the fourth try—1-9-7-4, the year my father was born—the lock emitted a soft, mechanical beep, and the heavy steel bolt slid backward with a muffled click.
May you like
I grabbed the brass handle, turned it slowly, and pulled the heavy door open.
A wave of cold, stagnant, metallic-smelling air rushed up from the dark abyss below. I stepped onto the top wooden step, closed the door behind me until it was barely a sliver open, and descended into the dark basement.
