The cold autumn rain dripped from the brim of Clara’s umbrella onto the rusty cellar doors behind the sprawling country estate.
Her hands shook as she pulled a spare brass key from her purse, praying Julian had not changed the security locks yet.
Only seventy-two hours ago, Clara had collapsed on the grass of Greenlawn Cemetery, watching a polished mahogany coffin descend into the wet earth.
Every major local newspaper had covered the tragedy of little six-year-old Lily, the sole heiress to a massive family trust fund who had reportedly succumbed to sudden respiratory failure.
Her son Julian had stood before the weeping crowd in a bespoke black suit, wiping dry eyes while television cameras recorded his fatherly grief.
Clara: I just need her little hand-knitted blanket. Just one piece of my sweet girl before Julian liquidates the entire estate.
The heavy iron cellar door creaked loudly on its corroded hinges, releasing a blast of icy, subterranean air that smelled of wet cement and rotting wood.
Clara stepped down the steep wooden steps into the darkness, clicking on a small penlight from her pocket.
The yellow light darted across stacks of cardboard boxes, forgotten patio furniture, and broken antique furniture.
Clara: Julian said everything from the nursery was packed away down here.
A faint, wet rustling sound drifted from the darkest corner behind the industrial furnace.
Clara froze on the bottom step, her breath catching in her throat.
Clara: Is someone down here? Is that a raccoon?
A tiny, dry whimper answered through the shadows, followed by the soft clinking of a metal cup against concrete.
Lily: Grandma? Is it morning yet?
Clara’s heart stopped beating in her chest. Her penlight slipped from her numb fingers, clattering onto the hard floor.
Clara: Dear Lord in heaven... Lily?
She dropped to her knees in the damp dirt, crawling blindly toward the sound until her trembling fingers touched a pair of ice-cold bare feet.
Curled beneath a mound of dirty moving blankets was Lily, wearing a torn hospital gown, her pale face streaked with dirt and dried tears.
Lily: Grandma, please don't be mad. Daddy told me I had to stay asleep until the church party was over.
Clara: You're alive... Oh God, your skin is cold, but your heart is beating!
Lily: Shh. Daddy said if I talk out loud, the bad men from the bank will take our house away.
Before Clara could lift the child into her arms, the cellar door at the top of the stairs slammed shut with a thunderous bang.
Heavy leather boots began thudding down the wooden stairs, accompanied by the cold, slow clapping of two gloved hands.
Julian: You always were too curious for your own good, Mother.