Now the voice coming through Aunt June’s dead monitors belonged to the man from the scratched-out photograph.
Elias Voss.
A traitor.
A ghost.
My father.
Mom pulled me away from the screens and shoved the metal box into Aunt June’s hands.
“We need the bunker tunnel.”
Aunt June was already moving.
“Been waiting twelve years for you to ask.”
The cabin shook again. Dust fell from the ceiling. Somewhere outside, branches snapped though there was no wind strong enough to break them. The hum overhead deepened, low and unnatural, like thunder trapped inside machinery.
Aunt June yanked open a trapdoor beneath a rug.
“Move.”
Mom pushed me down first.
The stairs were narrow and metal, descending into darkness. I stumbled, caught the railing, and looked back just as a white-blue light swept across the cabin windows above us.
“Mom!”
“I’m right behind you.”
She slammed the trapdoor shut.
