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“I promise.” He presses his lips to my temple and steers me back toward the stairs. I’m beginning to think his definition of ‘hurt’ and mine aren’t the same. What else could explain him grabbing her around by the throat so callously? “But in the meantime, we’ll get dressed and change location.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want your mother or the authorities interrupting your training, and we need to dig deeper into her past. Based on the lack of information I found on your family, she might be connected.”
“To who?”
“That’s what I want to know,” he mutters.
The doorbell rings as we shower, and numerous voices shout through the letterbox, demanding that we open the door. Xero already placed locks on all the downstairs rooms, so even if someone broke in through the windows, they couldn’t reach us upstairs.
Several minutes later, we’re both changed and walking down the stairs with overnight bags. Xero wears his black ski mask as a precaution, but whoever was so desperate to reach us has gone.
We continue to the cupboard under the stairs, but this time into the space beneath the kitchen, where there’s enough headroom for Xero because of the ground’s downward slope.
This part of the crawlspace encompasses the width of the house and is supported by large brick pillars, but there’s an area toward the garden that’s sectioned off to create a box room.
“What’s over there?” I ask.
“My study.”
“What’s inside?”
“Computers,” he mutters.
I walk toward it, but a low moan drifts from the other side of the wall. Shivers skitter across my spine, and I spin around toward the source of the sound. “Don’t tell me those men are still alive?”
“The two surviving ones are a treasure trove of information, but neither is willing to explain why their firm was so keen to have you star in its movie.”
“What havethey said so far?”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Mostly bullshit surrounding your social media presence. None of them will admit to sending you the polaroid or the threatening letter.”
Shuddering, I allow Xero to guide me through a doorway that leads to Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace. Hers is arranged like a basement storeroom, with every wall covered in tall shelves laden with Perspex boxes containing bottled water, groceries, and canned goods.
I glance up at the ceiling to find a network of cables and pipes enclosed in protective covers.
“Is this how you faked the scéance?” I ask.
Xero chuckles. “What do you mean?”
“Did you use the crawlspaces to sneak into Relaney’s house, pretending to be a vengeful ghost?”
“Yes.”
I meet his eyes, but all he does is raise his brows, daring me to challenge him. My shoulders sag. I’m homeless, horny, and hunted by psychopaths. The last thing I need to do is anger him over a few knocks.
“Did I ever tell you number 11 Parisii Drive was one of our first safe houses?”
“Um…” My brow furrows. So much has happened since the night those men attacked that I’m still reeling from all manner of heinous discoveries. “Maybe?”
He continues to a row of shelves filled with kitchen appliances and reaches behind a large toaster, where I can only assume there’s a hidden lever. Sure enough, the shelf swings inward, releasing a gust of cold, musty air.
I stare into a dark passageway leading into fuck knows where.
“This runs beneath Mrs. Baker’s backyard and stretches to the entrance of the catacombs,” he says.
“Okay?” I reply, imagining tunnels lined with skull bones.
