Chapter 20 #2
“Pfff.” She waved the idea away as if it were a fly buzzing near her face. “The police. Men who protect each other. I tried, but they always took the monster’s side. So save yourself the call next time.”
“You knew I was down here with the police?”
“Of course.”
I sat up straighter. “Then why didn’t you show yourself? They could’ve helped you.”
She snapped her head toward me, frustration flaring in her face. “Did you not listen to a single word I just said?”
“No, no. I get it,” I said quickly, before she spiraled again. “The police often protect monsters.”
That part was true. Who hadn’t heard stories of rape victims ignored? Domestic abuse brushed off? Survivors discredited while the abuser walked free?
“Do you know who the monster is?” I asked. “So that I’ll know when I see him? I might need to run or defend myself.”
Her eyes dropped to the plate she was drying. “Monsters have many faces,” she said. She placed the plate in the cabinet, then reached for a pot and wiped it dry with the same cloth. “And I told you, you’re safe here. As long as I’m down here, the monster won’t hurt you.”
That wasn’t good enough for me.
“What does the monster look like? Does it live here?”
“You’re not strong enough. When you’re ready, I can show him to you. Until then, I can’t allow it.”
He.
“What makes you think I’m not strong enough to meet the monster here?”
A dry, sarcastic laugh slipped from her lips as she swept her hair over one shoulder.
Her fingers trembled slightly, but her voice stayed sharp.
“You don’t even know if I’m real. That tells me you’re not doing so good mentally right now.
I’d almost say you’re worse off than I am.
I never doubted the monster. Or my own mind. ”
She paused, mugs in hand, staring at me. Her eyes caught the kitchen light—wide, reflective, too clear. “And I’m batshit crazy.”
A bitter taste rose in the back of my throat.
She wasn’t wrong. Nothing about me screamed “stable” or “ready for a fight.” I glanced at the phone in my hand, checking the screen.
The recording was still running, the timer counting up in red numbers beneath the REC button. At least that much was real.
“That scar,” she said suddenly, nodding in my direction. “Did a monster do that?”
I nodded.
My father.
Another kind of monster.
“Yeah. While my mom watched. So I guess we women can be monsters too.”
Her gaze lingered on me—searching, maybe seeing something familiar. She nodded slowly.
“A different sort of monster. But yes, we can, indeed.” Her voice had dropped. She almost sounded regretful.
Silence stretched between us. The only sounds were the soft clink of dishes meeting the cabinets and the low hum of the refrigerator. A faint scent of lavender dish soap floated from the sink, mixing oddly with the colder, basement air behind me.
Wait.
How had I not thought of this sooner?
“How do I get out of here?”
I rose abruptly, panic bubbling up into my chest. If Daniel found me down here, and all of this turned out to be some kind of hallucination again, it would be time for a psych ward.
“I’m pretty sure whoever I saw leaving earlier locked the yellow door from the outside again,” I said.
She nodded.
“Who was he? Hudson?”
No response.
“Daniel?” I pushed, knowing it was a risk. But I had to know. I needed something solid.
She laughed in a harsh burst, like she’d just heard a ridiculous joke. “Are you asking me if you’re married to a monster? Isn’t that something you should know?”
“He’s not a monster!” I said. Just saying it aloud settled something in me. He wasn’t. I knew it. Deep down, I knew it. Daniel couldn’t hurt a fly.
“Then why ask me,” she said, “if you already know?”
So it had to be Hudson who’d been down here earlier. But then—did Tara know? What the hell was going on here?
“Am I stuck here until he returns?” I asked.
“No. If you want to get out of here, there’s a hidden door in one of the storage rooms. Behind the old wooden shelf. When you turn right at the fork. Second room on the left.”
The words settled over me like a slow chill.
It all made sense now. That was how she was getting out. That was how Mochi had seen her—talked about her like she wasn’t just some ghost in the walls.
“You know how to get out of here?” I asked. She could escape at any time if she wanted to. But she didn’t.
A smug grin tugged at her mouth. “Of course I do. The monster and I are the only ones who know about that secret door. He showed it to me. Nobody but him knew it was there.” She let that sit a beat before adding, “It was built by the very first Winthrop. Another monster. One from the past.”
My stomach turned.
“He built it so he could rape maids down here in the basement,” she continued, her voice casual in the worst way. “The thick walls muffled the screams. You can still see the old bed frame where he did it, right next to the shelf. Some of them were as young as ten.”
A metallic taste filled my mouth. I swallowed hard. “That’s disgusting.”
She shook her head, slow and dismissive. “It is. Monsters. All of them.”
I almost asked again about the person I’d seen leaving earlier, just to be sure. But then something else hit me—something that might be as bad as everything she’d just told me.
“Wait. If you know how to get out of here . . .”
My thoughts jumped to Rascal and the wound across his stomach. It looked like something had sliced him open. And Mochi, repeating over and over that the stupid dog should die. This woman knew exactly how to escape, and she probably also knew where the keys to the yellow door were hidden.
I stepped closer, not just to her but to the door too.
“Did you hurt Rascal?” The question snapped out of me harshly.
“Rascal?” she asked, turning to me with an icy calm demeanor. “Is that the stupid dog?”
My chest clenched. “Oh my God. It was you.”
Shock coursed through me, even though, really, why was I surprised? A woman living in a basement for God knows how long wasn’t exactly working with the clearest mind.
She shrugged and kept stacking plates in a cabinet. The dishes made a soft clink as they met each other.
“The stupid dogs make you sick,” she said. “It’s better if they die.”
I felt my throat tighten. My eyes flicked toward the hallway doors, toward the exit.
“Oh, Emily,” she said, tilting her head as if I were a toddler who’d just broken a toy.
“Stupid little girl. If you think I’m just some crazy old woman who might kill you in your sleep, you’re wrong.
I never sought you out. You are the one coming down here to see me.
You’re free to go. There’s the door. Bye-bye. ”
My eyes darted back and forth, from her to the door.
There’d be no arguing with her. No convincing her that what she’d done was wrong. No reaching a woman who talked about monsters and stabbed dogs without blinking.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “I'd better go before Daniel wakes up and looks for me.”
She ignored me as I walked quickly to the door.
What was I supposed to say now? Bye? See you later?
“Thank you for not locking me out there in the dark,” I mumbled as I passed her, watching her out of the corner of my eye. “And for telling me about the secret door.”
She didn’t look at me, just closed the dishwasher with a soft thud and dried her hands on a towel.
“Look at the bed where he raped them,” she said quietly. “Monsters. All of them.”
I rushed into the dim hallway, my heart thudding. For some reason, she’d left the door open behind me. Maybe she’d done it on purpose. She didn’t follow me or say another word.
The air was colder here, heavier. I flicked on my phone’s flashlight and stopped the recording. Relief hit me hard when I saw the counter still ticking just before I tapped stop. The entire conversation had been saved.
I moved fast, cutting through the tunnel toward the second door on the left—just like she’d said. My beam swept across the room. It was small and damp, its walls lined with forgotten shelves.
There it was.
A wooden shelf, tucked against the far wall. Dust clung to every edge, and the smell of mold was thick in the air. It looked exactly like a hidden door should look.
But what made my stomach flip wasn’t the shelf.
It was the bed frame beside it.
Rotten. Iron. Barely upright.
The mattress had caved in, and the old sheets had slid halfway to the floor, where they were bunched in a pile. Dark stains—brown and crusted—bloomed across the fabric. I gagged as I stepped closer, my hand clamped over my nose. The scent of old metal and something sharp hit the back of my throat.
Those stains . . . Were they blood? From the little girls the first Winthrop had raped down here?
I walked to the shelf and pulled. It creaked but moved. Slowly, the whole thing opened like a door. Just like she said.
Behind it was a narrow corridor. I slipped through, my footsteps light, and followed the passage around a tight corner before it opened up to a set of stairs.
The wood groaned under my weight, each step a careful test. At the top, I found a rectangular panel made of solid wood, like the back of a bookshelf. I pushed against it once, then harder. It gave with a loud creak.
And then I was standing in the food pantry. Tara’s kingdom.
The hidden door was a massive built-in shelf. It had clearly been repainted over the years, but it was likely the original from when the house was built. It fit perfectly into the frame of the hidden corridor, blending seamlessly and solidly. No one would have ever guessed a tunnel was behind it.
A few cans had fallen onto the floor, probably from the shelf shifting when I opened it.
I shoved the pantry door shut again just as the kitchen light flicked on.
I spun around, my heart slamming.
Hudson!
“God, Hudson!” I gasped. “You scared me to death.”
“The dogs heard something and started barking,” he said, his voice low and groggy.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry. Must’ve been me ghosting around.”
His eyes narrowed, suspicious.
“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d grab a quick snack.”
His gaze dropped to my feet. I followed it.
Shit. My bare feet were filthy, smeared with grime and dust from the basement.
“I went for a walk to get some fresh air,” I said quickly. “Then I stopped in here to grab a snack. I’m so sorry if I woke anyone.”
I scanned the shelf in a panic, then grabbed the nearest bag of chips and held it up like it was proof. A snack alibi.
“I’ve been craving these,” I said.
His whole demeanor shifted. He smiled, instantly friendly.
“Oh, no, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you. Here—” Hudson stepped beside me and bent down to pick up the cans. He straightened just as I bent down to help him. “I got it,” he said. “Go hit those pillows.”
But I helped anyway, scooping up the last few tins with shaky hands.
“Well, I’ll try to get some sleep,” I said.
“Good idea,” Hudson replied with a warm nod.
“Good night, Hudson.”
“Night.”
Chips and phone hugged against my chest, I hurried out of the kitchen and back to the stairs. No way in hell was I telling Hudson what I’d just recorded—or that I’d crawled through a secret tunnel from the basement.
He was probably the one keeping her down there.
But then again, was she really trapped? She knew how to get out, which kind of contradicted the whole prisoner narrative.
Her space didn’t look like a dungeon, either.
It had luxury appliances, custom furniture—it looked more like a secret apartment than a cell.
She could leave anytime. She just . . . didn’t.
Still, Daniel needed to know. We had to do something. Cynthia hurt Rascal, and the whole monster talk was spooky as hell.
I’d wash my feet, then wake Daniel. I’d play the recording. He’d freak out. He’d probably be outraged.
But at least we could finally start making sense of all this.
And maybe, just maybe, clear my name.
No more psychotic episodes.
No more shadows in the walls.
Just the truth.