He doesn’t look at me, just replies in a nonchalant voice, “Either that or a key card.”
“Ah, of course,” I say.
My pulse kicks up when I look at the wooden staircase that leads into an abyss.
“Where the hell are we, Art? What’s going on?”
He’s halfway down the first step, but he glances back and hesitates. “You said I could trust you, right?”
I’m not entirely sure anymore. “Of course.”
“Then I need you to trust me, too.”
The hairs on my arms stand on end. But Idotrust Art. Of course I do.
We make it to the bottom of the stairs and enter another hallway lined with acoustic padding on the walls. Our footsteps don’t echo. It’s like the noise gets swallowed before it can escape.
“Soundproofing,” Art says. “The walls are packed with it. You could scream and no one upstairs would hear a thing.”
A tremor scrapes down my spine.
“You’re not planning to kill me down here, are you?”
“Please, we both know your dad would killmeif I thought of hurting you.”
The way he says it—so blasé—makes my skin prickle, but I ignore it because thinking about my dad reminds me I left him alone in Boston, and that hurts too much.
We go down one flight. Then another. The walls change to raw concrete, and I realize we’re deeper underground than I thought. Three levels at least, maybe more. The air changes immediately as we make our way down. Cooler for sure, and damper, with an undercurrent of something metallic I can’t quite place.
“How far down does this go?”
“Far enough.” Art’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me forward. “This place was built on top of a speakeasy. Then Prohibition ended, and someone else expanded it over the years. Added the infrastructure.”
“Infrastructure for what?”
We stop in front of a heavy metal door, reinforced with steel plating.
“Wow, really keeping the door companies in business.”
Art sighs. “I love you, but this is serious.”
I put my hands up, but something small and sharp pinches at his chastisement. “Got it. I’m totally serious. What’s behind door number three?”
“The real reason I bought this place.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
He wants me to be impressed, I think, or maybe he just needs me to know why this matters to him. It’s clear that it does.
“Art. It’s okay.” I run my hand down the length of his arm. “I’ve got you, I promise. Whatever it is, we’ll be in it together.”
He nods, then does some fancy knock.
A small viewing pane in the metal clicks open, beady eyes shining through.
There’s noise, but it’s muffled like music through water.