Clara jumped to her feet, clutching the folded paper against her chest.
Clara: Jason! Look at this paper right now!
Jason grabbed the note, his eyes scanning the trembling lines of blue ink.
Jason: This... this is your mother's handwriting.
Clara: She's down there! She's been trapped in the dark while Claire pretended she was in Seattle!
Jason: Clara, calm down for one second. If Claire finds out we know, she could destroy the remaining evidence.
Clara: I am not waiting another second! Where is the emergency toolbox from the garage?
Jason: You can't just take an iron tool to a locked door inside an estate under probate review!
Clara: My mother is starving in a dungeon while my stepmother spends her life insurance money! Get out of my way!
Clara sprinted down the hallway into the attached utility room, returning moments later with a heavy steel crowbar.
Jason: Clara, stop! The security guard is parked right outside the driveway!
Clara: Then lock the front door and pull with me!
She shoved the flattened tip of the crowbar into the gap between the heavy steel chain and the brass padlock latch.
Clara: Put your hands on this bar, Jason! Pull!
Jason looked at the desperation in Clara's eyes, swallowed hard, and wrapped his palms around the metal handle.
Jason: On the count of three. One, two, three—heave!
The heavy screws groaned in the aged door frame, plaster dust showering down over their heads.
Clara: Harder! Put your entire weight into it!
With a violent metallic snap, the heavy iron hasp tore out of the wall, sending the padlock tumbling down the cellar steps.
The heavy oak door swung slowly inward, revealing an abyss of absolute darkness and cold, musty air.
Clara: Mom? Mom, are you down there?
A raspy, broken cough answered from the bottom of the concrete stairs.
Voice: Clara...? Clara, is that really my girl?
Clara: Turn on your phone flashlight, Jason! Hurry!
Clara flew down the wooden stairs two at a time, ignoring the damp chill clinging to the concrete walls.
At the base of the stairs, huddled beside a rusting water heater on a stained canvas cot, sat Evelyn.
Her graying hair was tangled, her hands shivering inside an oversized, torn sweater.
Clara: Mom! Oh God, Mom, what did she do to you?
Clara fell to her knees on the bare concrete, wrapping her arms tightly around her mother's frail body.
Evelyn: Clara... you found me. I thought she was going to let me freeze down here.
Jason: Evelyn, this is horrifying. How long has Claire kept you down here?
Evelyn: Since the day of Richard's memorial service. She brought two men in uniforms to the house... they took my handbag, my keys, and my insulin.
Clara: She took your insulin? You have severe diabetes!
Evelyn: She only gave me enough to keep me awake when she brought the financial papers for me to sign.
Jason: What papers did she want you to sign?
Evelyn: The irrevocable deed to Richard's commercial real estate holdings and the survivor annuity.
Clara: That property alone is worth twenty-two million dollars!
Evelyn: She said if I signed over the family trust fund, she would let me walk out of here alive.
The sudden slam of the front door echoed upstairs, followed by the rapid clicking of high heels across the floorboards.
Claire: Clara? Jason? Who gave you permission to break my locks?