Harold’s eyes flicked toward the blue folder in my hand.
“You found it.”
“You left it in my study.”
“I didn’t mean for them to hurt you.”
“You were the one hurting me.”
Harold’s mouth opened and closed.
Outside, tires moved over gravel.
A vehicle had entered the driveway.
Detective Alvarez called from somewhere above.
“Harold Mercer? Step away from the opening and keep your hands where we can see them.”
Harold turned toward the stairs.
Dad caught his arm.
Harold pulled free and stumbled backward.
The old stair beneath his foot cracked.
For one terrifying second, he dropped through the gap.
Dad grabbed the back of his coat.
I grabbed Dad’s waist.
Harold dangled over the darkness, his flashlight spinning across the concrete walls.
“Help me!” he shouted.
Dad’s jaw clenched.
“Take my hand.”
Harold stared at him.
“You’ll let me fall.”
“Take my hand.”
Harold reached up.
Dad pulled until I could grab Harold’s wrist. Together, we dragged him onto the floor.
Harold lay on his back, gasping.
Detective Alvarez appeared at the top of the stairs with two officers behind her.
“Everyone stay where you are.”
Harold began to cry.
