Chapter 33
Around midnight, I blinked awake, neck stiff, body aching from lying too long in the same position. The steady rhythm of Aiden’s breathing filled the quiet. I had curled up against him, one hand resting on his chest.
The hospital lights had dimmed for the night, washing everything in silver-blue shadows.
Machines hummed softly, and the sharp scent of antiseptic mixed with something faintly metallic.
That was one good thing about a small town.
Nobody had the heart to kick me out. The night nurse had peeked in once, smiled, and kept walking.
Slowly, I stood, stretching until my back cracked. Aiden didn’t move. His face looked peaceful for once, the harsh lines softened. He needed sleep to heal.
Yawning, I tore a page from the notepad on the counter and scribbled a note letting him know I’d be back in the morning before Nonna arrived.
I stepped out of the room. The hallway stretched quiet and sterile, lined with closed doors and pale yellow light.
When I reached the exit, the night air hit me, cool and clean.
The rain had stopped, but the pavement still gleamed under the streetlights.
The smell of wet earth hung heavy in the air, laced with the faint bite of pine.
My mind would not rest.
How had anyone broken into Nana’s shop? Rory’s alarm system was top-tier. We’d caught the leprechaun leaving, not entering. The costume matched Nana’s right down to the gold buttons, except for the missing patch. Whoever wore it had planned that.
Driving through town, I passed the bakery, dark for the night, and the diner, still glowing with tired light and one truck in the lot. Silverville slept like it trusted the world not to burn it down. I wasn’t sure I did anymore.
I parked in front of Nana’s shop and killed the engine. The sign above the door caught the moonlight, silver lettering gleaming faintly against the dark wood. The building sat quiet and still, a small piece of magic in an otherwise sensible world.
Even from the car, I could tell the place had a pulse.
If my brain wouldn’t stop, I guess I’d keep working.
I climbed out, pulling my jacket tighter around me.
My hand slipped inside my purse until my fingers brushed the familiar shape of my Lady Smith & Wesson, which I’d grabbed before heading over the pass.
Leaves whispered across the sidewalk, swirling in the breeze.
The air carried that after-rain clarity, every scent crisp and alive.
I walked the perimeter of the shop. Each window sat sealed, glass unbroken, locks untouched.
The back door looked solid. Whoever had been inside hadn’t forced their way.
Aiden had been right.
I stood at the back step, debating between sleep and work. Sleep didn’t stand a chance.
Entering the key code, I pressed my thumb to the scanner. The lock clicked open with a soft metallic sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet.
Inside, the familiar scent met me at once. Dried lavender, honey, and the faintest hint of orange from the diffuser Nana always kept on. The air felt warmer in here, softer, safer.
I locked the door behind me and flicked on the lights. The glow spread across rows of shelves lined with jars and bottles, each labeled in Nana’s careful cursive. Shadows filled the corners.
The kitchenette called to me like an old friend. I made a cup of coffee, added the last of the creamer, and took a long sip. It burned my tongue and woke me right up as I headed into the main room.
The day of the sale replayed in my mind. I hadn’t seen any blue stripe on the tea containers. Maybe I hadn’t noticed, maybe it hadn’t been there. We’d been slammed with customers that day. Still, something about it didn’t sit right.
And Brad Backleboff buying so much tea? That had never made sense. His story about gift packages for family sounded flimsy at best.
Coincidences were for fairy tales. In law, and in life, they usually meant someone was lying.
I took another drink of coffee and turned on the overhead lights. The shop brightened, every surface visible now. The counter was still covered in receipts. I crossed to it, set my cup down, and began sorting through the papers.
Nana’s writing curved across the pages in purple ink, looping and cheerful. Mine was sharper, more precise. Between the two of us, we’d documented everything: card payments, cash sales, newsletter sign-ups. Every customer who bought tea sat right there in black and white.
I recognized the names. Neighbors. Friends. Regulars. People who probably didn’t want mushroom supplements and thought they were just buying tea. I pulled out the stack of invoices from Blue Moon Tea and studied them again, finding nothing unusual.
I leaned back and rubbed my temples.
Something wasn’t adding up.
The clock ticked behind the counter, steady and calm. The room around me felt too still, like the air had thickened. I scanned the space again, eyes tracking from the front display to the door, to the back hallway that led to storage.
I pushed away from the counter and moved toward the front window. The moonlight stretched across the street, silvering the wet pavement. The entire town looked asleep.
For a second, I rested my hand on the glass. It felt cold, solid, real. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but if I had, this would’ve been their hour.
Maybe I was chasing shadows. Maybe I was missing something right in front of me.
Either way, I wasn’t sleeping tonight.
Yawning, I wandered into the kitchenette and dumped the rest of my cold coffee into the sink. The bitter scent lingered as I rinsed the cup and set it upside down to dry. When I straightened, I noticed a trail of dirt on the floor.
Yeah, that was from me.
I opened the closet that held the cleaning supplies and grabbed the broom.
Once I started sweeping, I couldn’t stop.
The quiet made the sound of bristles against the old wood echo faintly, filling the space with a steady rhythm.
Dust, leaves, and whatever else I’d tracked in slid across the floor.
The task felt oddly calming—something simple and within my control.
I emptied the dustpan into the garbage and yawned again. My body protested, but my mind still churned.
What had Aiden been thinking earlier, trying to charm me in a hospital bed with an IV stuck in his arm? The image made me giggle, the sound too loud in the empty store. He was wild. Absolutely reckless, and I loved him for it.
I put the broom back, but something on the floor caught my attention. A thin, uneven line in the wood, just inside the storage closet.
Frowning, I crouched and brushed the dust away. The board seemed… wrong. Slightly offset, like it didn’t quite belong.
“Wait a second,” I murmured under my breath.
Cormac’s words from earlier flashed through my head. There were tunnels under this area. He’d mentioned them so casually, like that was a normal thing to drop into conversation.
My pulse kicked up. Holding my breath, I ran my fingers along the edge of the plank. Nothing. Just solid wood.
I almost laughed at myself. My imagination tended to sprint ahead of facts, especially after midnight. Still, that faint groove looked strange. I slid one finger into the thin gap and tugged. The board moved. Just slightly.
“Oh, no way,” I whispered.
I tried again, this time gripping both hands under the edge. With a grunt, the plank lifted, revealing a small metal handle beneath it. My heart leapt straight into my throat.
“What in the world…”
I pulled harder, the old hinges creaking as a section of the floor lifted like a lid. A trapdoor. A literal, honest-to-God trapdoor.
The air that rose from below smelled like dirt and iron, cool and old.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, landing on a small space below. Stone walls. Shelving. Something glass.
A cellar.
For a full ten seconds, I just knelt there, staring. Then curiosity shoved common sense aside. I found a small wooden ladder attached to the opening and climbed down.
The floor was packed dirt, and the air felt damp enough to cling to my skin. The space couldn’t have been more than ten by ten, half full of old canning jars. Some still held preserved fruit, cloudy with age. Others sat empty, dusted with cobwebs.
“Oh, Nana,” I whispered. “You’d love this.”
It looked like a century-old pantry, long forgotten. Except for one thing.
Boot prints.
I froze.
Clear, defined impressions tracked across the dirt, leading from the ladder to the far wall.
Someone had been down here. Recently.
My heart started to pound in my ears.
The sudden buzz of my phone nearly sent me through the ceiling. I gasped, clutching it tight before forcing out a shaky breath.
A text flashed across the screen.
Cormac: HEY, IT’S CORMAC. I HAVE THE SILVER NUGGET BOXES. I’LL CALL IN THE MORNING.
I blinked once. Then again. “How does he even have my number?” I muttered, texting back.
Me: WHERE ARE YOU? I WANT TO SEE THEM.
Three dots appeared. Then his reply.
Cormac: IT’S LATE. I’LL brING THEM TO AIDEN’S HOSPITAL ROOM TOMORROW MORNING WHEN YOUR NONNA VISITS AT TEN. HOPEFULLY SHE’LL brING MORE COOKIES.
I froze, rereading that last line.
Me: HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE COOKIES?
I texted the question, but the message stayed unanswered. The dots never came back.
Me: CORMAC! WHERE DID YOU FIND THE SILVER BOXES?
Nothing.
The idiot had turned off his phone.
I groaned and shoved the device into my back pocket.
A faint movement stirred the air, brushing the loose strands of my hair. A breeze. Down here.
I stilled.
A basement like this shouldn’t have airflow.
The fine hairs on my neck lifted. My eyes scanned the space again, following the edges of the shelves, the line of the dirt wall, until something caught my attention.
Straight ahead, the dirt wasn’t quite even. A faint outline stood out—a rectangle set deeper into the wall, the texture subtly different from the surrounding soil.
I stepped closer, heart thudding harder now. The air smelled faintly of earth and metal, with something older underneath, like rust or mildew. My light flickered across the surface.
The outline wasn’t natural. It was a door.
“Holy crap,” I whispered.
My hands felt clammy as I brushed dirt away, revealing the faint ridge of a wooden frame. A door was there, sealed tight against the packed soil, hidden for who knew how long.
The breeze whispered again, colder this time, as if something inside had just exhaled.
Every rational instinct screamed to get back up that ladder.
Instead, I leaned closer.
I pulled my gun out, thumb on the safety, and opened the door a fraction at a time. My phone flashlight cut a narrow beam. A tunnel yawned in front of me, the same kind of crude passage that had trapped Aiden and me. Cold air rose from the opening. My skin prickled. All the pieces slid into place.
A strangled cry ripped through the dark. I jolted, gun up, and hurried forward across the distance between Nana’s shop and the optometrist’s building. Another cry, sharper this time. Somebody was hurt. Somebody needed help.
I lifted the phone to my ear to call nine-one-one. No signal. My throat closed. I cursed under my breath and kept moving, scanning with the beam for shapes, for anything that might explain the noise. The cry came again, up in the neighboring building.
I climbed the ladder as quietly as I could, the rungs cold through my palms. When I pushed the trapdoor open, the smell of bleach hit me. I swung the flashlight and found a small closet of frames and eyeglass cases.
The cry came from the room beyond. I shoved the closet door and stepped through into Gloria’s supplement shop, my gun raised. “Stop.”
A woman shrieked. Brooke Walton rolled off Henry Johnston. They lay tangled on the floor, naked and frantic, a towel twisted around them. My mouth went dry.
“Oh God.” I slapped a hand over my eyes for a second and then dropped it. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Anna.” Henry scrambled for his jeans, hands fumbling. “Where did you come from? Have you been in there the whole time?”
I couldn’t breathe. He swung to the left. I didn’t want to know that. “No.”
Brooke yanked one of his dress shirts over her head and buttoned it, the fabric barely covering her thighs. Her hair looked like a hurricane had finished with it. Her eyes cut to me, wide and furious. “Where did you come from?”
“I thought someone was in pain,” I said. My voice sounded small in the flush of the room. I pointed toward the closet. “I came to rescue whoever needed help. With a gun.”
Henry rubbed his belly. “Brooke is a screamer.” Yeah, he looked pleased with himself.
The sight of them registered like a punch. My brain refused to file the image away.
“Are you insane?” Brooke demanded. She yanked the shirt tighter and stood unsteady, legs bare. “Do you do this often? How did you even get in here?”
I gulped, trying to breathe. “Why are you having sex on the floor?” I gasped.
She straightened. “Is that a trapdoor?” she asked, peering down at the opening in the floor.
“Yes.” I blinked. Head spinning, I tried to line up facts. “I found it. I’m sorry. I thought someone needed help.”
Brooke’s chest heaved. “I’m calling the police.” She reached for her phone.
“Don’t,” a voice from the doorway said, flat and low. Gloria stepped in, eyes narrowed, her bag slung over one shoulder. She’d tucked her blondish-gray hair in a hat and wore all black. She had come in from the optometry side and held a matte-finished Glock in one hand. “Drop your weapon, Anna.”