Chapter 39 - the stairs going down
Every old university building has spaces that were never meant for students.
Brewster Hall had been constructed in 1928 as a dormitory for textile workers before the college bought the land. Beneath the modern drywall and drop ceilings lay a network of Victorian-era service tunnels, steam pipes, and coal storage vaults that connected the quad to the central heating plant.
I found the metal service door behind the laundry room on the ground floor. It was painted industrial gray, the paint peeling in long, curled scabs.
The heavy steel hasp was engaged, but there was no padlock on it.
Instead, a thick, heavy-gauge steel chain was wound through the handle and looped three times around an iron water pipe running along the wall. The links were secured with a modern combination lock.
The sight of that chain hit me like a physical punch to the solar plexus.
Seven years ago, in our own basement, the chain had been brass. The door had been white wood. Claire had stood in front of it, weeping, swearing our son was safe, while Lily stood on the top step watching me with terrified eyes.
Now, the chain was steel. The door was iron. And Lily was on the other side.
I grabbed the heavy metal wrench from the emergency fire hose cabinet on the wall. I jammed the teeth between the chain links and twisted with everything I had. The steel groaned. My boots slipped on the wet concrete.
"Lily!" I screamed, slamming the butt of the wrench against the iron door panel.
From somewhere deep down in the dark, through the thick metal and the humming vibration of the steam pipes, came a faint, muffled sound.
May you like
A thud. Then a voice, choked and raw:
"Dad?"
