MY 6-YEAR-OLD HEARD A WOMAN CRYING UNDER OUR MARBLE FLOOR—WHEN WE SMASHED IT OPEN, WHAT WE FOUND FROZE MY BLOOD!

"Miller..." I choked out, trying to push myself up from the flagstones. "What did you do to Miller?"

"The detective fell through one of the blind vertical shafts," Vance said, his voice flat, devoid of remorse. "He’s thirty feet down in the dry cistern. He won't be bothering us again."

Vance stepped closer, his boots crunching over the shattered glass of fallen light tubes. The digital counter on the junction box was beeping with rapid, urgent frequency now.

*00:55.*

*00:54.*

*00:53.*

"You were my finest study, Daniel," Vance murmured, his eyes reflecting the flickering fluorescent light like a reptile’s. "A father’s love under constant, subterranean pressure. Did you know that when an animal realizes it is trapped, its cortisol levels mirror the exact neurological markers of madness? You were so close to breaking. If only your daughter hadn't listened so closely."

Behind Vance, partially concealed by the shadow of the metal shelving units, Clara was slowly lowering Lily to the floor behind a stack of archive boxes.

Clara caught my eye. Her face was gray with blood loss, but her gaze was stone. She picked up a heavy, two-foot-long iron counterweight that had rolled off the drafting table during the initial blast.

"Look at me, Vance," I said, raising my hands, drawing his eyes away from the shadows behind him. "You wanted to study me? Look at me! You think you're an architect? You're a coward who hid in the dark because you couldn't survive in the light!"

Vance’s face darkened with sudden, venomous fury. The clinical detachment slipped, revealing the pathetic, narcissistic monster underneath. "I created this world! I created the environment that shaped your daughter’s mind! Without me, you are nothing!"

"You're not a creator," I spat. "You're an infestation."

Vance snarled, tightening his finger on the trigger.

From behind him, Clara lunged.

With the last reserve of strength in her broken body, she swung the heavy iron counterweight like a baseball bat, striking Vance directly in the back of his knee.

The sound of bone snapping echoed through the vault.

Vance screamed—a high, pathetic wail—and collapsed to the flagstones. The Glock flew from his hand, sliding across the dusty floor, spinning until it came to rest against my boot.

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.

I kicked the gun away, threw myself onto Vance, and drove my forearm across his throat, pinning him to the stone. He thrashed beneath me, clawing at my face, his manicured fingernails tearing into my cheeks, his eyes bulging with animal terror.

"My house," I whispered into his ear, my voice trembling with cold, lethal clarity. "My daughter."

The timer behind us let out a long, continuous electronic wail.

*00:10.*

*00:09.*