For one terrible second, there was complete silence.
Then I heard a weak voice.
“Emily?”
My heart nearly stopped.
It was Margaret.
I ran toward the sound and found her sitting on an old chair in the small storage room at the back of the basement.
The door had been closed from the outside.
“Margaret!”
I pulled it open and rushed toward her.
She looked exhausted, but she was awake and fully dressed. There was a bottle of water beside her and a folded blanket over her knees.
I immediately reached for my phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
But Margaret grabbed my wrist.
“No.”
I stared at her.
“What do you mean, no? You were locked down here!”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Ryan didn’t do this.”
I froze.
“Then who did?”
Margaret looked toward the basement stairs.
“My daughter.”
I thought I had misunderstood her.
Margaret had one daughter, Susan, who lived several states away. As far as I knew, they spoke on the phone every week.
“Susan?”
Margaret slowly nodded.
Then she told me everything.
Three months earlier, Susan had visited and started pressuring Margaret to sell the house.
She said it was too large.
Too dangerous.
Too much responsibility for an elderly woman.
At first, Margaret agreed that she might sell eventually.
Then she discovered something.
Susan had already contacted a real estate agent.
She had also been asking questions about Margaret’s bank accounts, retirement savings, and legal documents.
Margaret became suspicious.
That was when Ryan entered the story.
