The trapdoor opened onto a narrow stairwell.
The air below smelled of earth and cedar.
Dad descended first.
At the bottom was a small concrete room with a single table, two chairs, and shelves crowded with boxes. A lantern hung from a hook in the wall.
I climbed down after him.
“You built this?”
“My father did. I repaired it.”
“For what?”
Dad lit the lantern.
“For the kind of day when the people closest to you stop being safe.”
He crossed to a steel cabinet.
The combination lock opened beneath his fingers.
Inside were folders, photographs, bank statements, and three small recording devices.
He removed the blue folder.
On its cover, written in his handwriting, were the words: IF I AM DECLARED DEAD.
I looked at him.
“You knew this might happen.”
“I suspected.”
He handed me the folder.
Inside was a copy of a medical report, several photographs, and a typed statement signed by Harold.
My eyes moved over the first page.
Harold had been giving Dad sedatives in his evening tea. The doses were small enough to avoid immediate suspicion but strong enough to leave him confused, weak, and forgetful. Grant had convinced him to sign several papers during those periods of confusion. Vanessa had apparently believed the plan would end with Dad being declared incompetent and placed in a care facility.
The last page showed a transfer agreement.
The house, truck, accounts, and equipment yard were to be divided between Vanessa and Grant after Dad’s death.
I felt the room tilt.
“Where did you get this?”
“Harold wrote it.”
“Why?”
“He wanted money.”
Dad opened a second folder.
