Through the Ducts

The duct smelled like old dust and wet metal. Claire went in first, one hand on the edge, the other braced behind her as she lowered herself down. The panel above them had dropped back into place with a soft thud, and the house was gone except for a dull hum through the wall.

Leo was right behind her. He kept one hand clamped over his mouth, the other tight on his left pocket like the brass key might vanish if he let go.

Mateo crouched at the back of the narrow crawlspace, his flashlight pointed low so it wouldn’t show through the grille. “Move slow,” he said. “Service tunnel runs to the east shed.”

“Of course it does,” Claire said.

He gave her a quick look that might have been a smile if the night were different.

They crawled in line, knees and elbows scraping concrete. Every few feet Claire stopped to listen. No footsteps above. No voices. Just the faint ping of rain somewhere outside and the dry rattle of the duct shaking when the furnace kicked on.

Leo made it without a word until the turn near the laundry chute. Then he froze, shoulder against the wall.

“Five things,” Claire said.

He looked at her, eyes huge in the dark.

“Name five things you can touch right now.”

His mouth worked. “Floor. Wall. My shoe. Your sleeve. The key.”

“Good. Keep going.”

“Dirt,” he said. “Screw. Pipe. My knee. Your hand.”

“Enough.”

He moved again.

The tunnel opened into a low service room behind the garage, with mop sinks and a stack of folded rags. Mateo lifted the outer door by inches, checked the drive, then waved them through. Cold air hit Claire’s face. Rain pattered hard off the brick.

A minute later they were in Mateo’s car, huddled low as he drove them off the property and through dark side streets to his brick row house twenty miles away. Leo slept the last ten minutes with his forehead against Claire’s arm, still holding the key.

Inside, Mateo put on every lamp he had. It felt too bright.

Claire got Leo settled on the couch with a blanket, then stood in the kitchen while Mateo dialed Margaret Harper. He set the phone on speaker.

Breath came through first. Then a woman’s voice, rough and fast. “Who is this?”

“It’s Claire Morgan. I’m with Leo.”

Silence. Then a sharp inhale. “You’re the twelfth.”

“Yes.”

“God.” Margaret coughed once. “Listen to me. Don’t trust the quiet man. He wore gloves in my kitchen. Kept touching his forehead where the scar is.”

“Who?”

“You know who.” Her voice thinned. “I left something in the old drawer under the cutting boards. If it’s still there, take it. Code is the year Elena hired me.”

Three slow knocks hit Mateo’s front door.

No one moved. The phone line crackled. On the couch, Leo sat up straight and stared at the hallway.