Tori thought she could leave four children with me while she flew to Japan, but she forgot one important detail: I had a flight of my own that afternoon, and I wasn't canceling it this time.

The cellar smelled of damp stone, stored potatoes, and century-old earth. Decades ago, this foundation had been part of an old underground railway stop, built with granite blocks hauled from the quarry in Milford. Arthur and I had never modernized it; we had kept the rough earthen floor and the heavy hand-hewn ceiling beams.

Alistair was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily in the darkness. "The storm hatch behind the coal bin," he whispered. "It leads out behind the woodpile near the tree line."

"I know where my own cellar leads, Alistair," I replied in a hushed tone.

Above our heads, heavy footfalls thudded against the kitchen floorboards. A crash followed—the sound of cupboard doors being ripped open, glass jars shattering against the counter. Miller’s man was searching with brute force, while Miller’s voice remained calm, calling out from the hall.

"Arthur’s dead, Myrna! He died five years ago in a Boston hospital! You don't owe his ghost anything! Hand over the manifests and you can walk away to that cottage in Portugal you love so much!"

I didn't answer. I led Alistair through the narrow passage between the concrete foundation and the old wooden coal bin. The air here was bitter cold, seeping through the gaps of the wooden storm hatch that opened to the outside.

A massive iron bar secured the hatch from the inside. I slung the oilcloth package across my chest, set my boots against the damp earth, and threw my weight against the iron bar.