The Basement Screams Stopped When the Rusted Spoon Touched My Skin — Then I Saw the Photo — Part 2 of 3

The Photo Wasn’t the Worst of It

When the door opened again, I had one wrist free.

I froze, pretending to still be bound, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.

He carried a chair of his own, setting it down a few feet from me, sitting and crossing his legs like we were old friends.

“You’re probably wondering about the photo,” he said, casual.

I didn’t answer, but he didn’t need me to.

“Your mother. Nice woman. Made a mistake, though. A big one.”

He pulled out another photo, this one older, creased, showing a man in a uniform.

“My brother,” he said, tapping the face. “He died in a warehouse fire. Twelve years ago.”

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“Your mother was the fire marshal,” he said, the amusement in his eyes turning hard. “She ruled it an accident. Said it was faulty wiring. But it wasn’t.”

I felt the floor drop out from under me. “My mother was a fire marshal, yes, but she never —”

“She covered it up,” he cut in, his voice rising. “She took a bribe from the warehouse owner, and she let my brother burn.”

“That’s not true,” I said, but my voice wavered. Because I didn’t know. My mother had died three years ago, and she’d never talked about her cases.

He stood, pacing, his hands clenched at his sides. “I spent years trying to prove it. But she covered her tracks well. So I decided to go through her.”

He looked at me, and I saw the cold amusement return. “The daughter. The one she loved most.”

“She’s dead,” I said, my voice breaking. “You can’t hurt her anymore.”

“But I can hurt you,” he said, smiling. “And that will hurt her, wherever she is.”

He picked up the rusted spoon again, turning it over in his fingers. “This was my brother’s. He used to eat soup with it. I keep it as a reminder.”

He crouched in front of me, holding the spoon to my cheek. “I’m going to give you a choice. You can tell me where your mother kept her files — the evidence she hid — and I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t know,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “I swear, I don’t know.”

He pressed the spoon harder, the cold metal biting into my skin. “Then you’ll stay here until you remember.”

He stood, and I saw him glance at the photo on the floor, my mother’s face staring up at the ceiling.

“She was a coward,” he said. “But you? You have a chance to be brave.”

He walked out, and I heard the lock click.

I worked my wrist free, the rope falling away, and I stood, my legs shaking.

I stumbled to the door, but it was solid steel, no handle on this side.

I looked around the basement — boxes, shelves, a single window high on the wall, boarded over.

I moved to the table, grabbing the spoon, not as a weapon, but as a tool.

I wedged it into the edge of a board on the window, prying, the wood groaning.

I heard footsteps above me, and I froze.

The door creaked, and I spun, my back against the wall, the spoon held out in front of me like a knife.

He stood in the doorway, his eyes going to the window, then to me, and his smile turned into a laugh.

“Clever girl,” he said. “But not clever enough.”

He took a step toward me, and I threw the spoon at him, but he sidestepped it easily.

“That was your only move,” he said, and he lunged.

I dodged, but he caught my arm, twisting it behind my back, and I screamed.

He pushed me back into the chair, and I felt the ropes tighten again, this time tighter than before.

“No more games,” he said, his voice low. “Tell me where the files are, or I’ll start cutting.”

I looked into his eyes, and I saw the truth — he wasn’t going to let me go, no matter what I said.

So I decided to lie.

“They’re in my mother’s safe deposit box,” I said, my voice steady. “At the bank on Fifth Street. I’ll take you there.”

He studied me, searching for a tell, and I held his gaze.

“If you’re lying,” he said, “you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

But I was already planning my escape.

Because I knew one thing he didn’t: my mother never kept secrets in a safe deposit box.

She kept them in her diary, hidden in the attic of our old house.

And I knew exactly where that diary was.

I just had to get there first.