Noah Blake tore free of the funeral attendant, sprinted through the rain, and slapped a muddy silver key onto his mother’s white coffin hard enough to scatter three lily petals.

"Ethan, hold up! Flashlights!" Marcus shouted from behind, sweeping a high-lumen tactical beam across the damp concrete floor.

The beam cut through the swirling dust and illuminated the cluttered basement: old storage boxes, holiday decorations, spare furniture, and towering stacks of old magazines. But at the far end of the cellar, tucked beneath the staircase leading up to the main kitchen, was a heavy, steel-reinforced security door—a door Ethan hadn't looked at in years because it led to the old fruit cellar that had been sealed off during their kitchen remodel.

Except someone had unsealed it.

Fresh drywall dust coated the floor around the frame. A brand-new heavy-duty digital keypad and a deadbolt lock had been installed directly into the center of the wood.

And right beneath the door, a small, dark pool of liquid had pooled on the concrete.

Ethan dropped to his knees, ignoring the sharp gravel biting into his skin. He reached out and touched the liquid.

It was wet. And it was red.

"Lauren!" Ethan screamed, his voice cracking into a desperate, raw plea that echoed off the concrete walls. He slammed his palms against the steel door. "Lauren! Can you hear me?!"

For a second, there was only the hum of the electrical conduit overhead.

Then came a sound.

A faint, scraping sound from the other side, followed by a weak, breathy rasp.

“...Bug...?”

Ethan’s heart stopped beating. "Lauren! I'm here! I'm right here! Hold on, baby, we're getting you out!"

"Back up, Ethan! Stand back!" Marcus shouted, stepping forward with a heavy hydraulic battering ram he had retrieved from the cruiser trunk. "Officers, cover the perimeter! On my count!"

Ethan scrambled backward just enough to give them room, pressing his hands against the cold concrete floor, tears streaming freely down his face mixing with the rain still dripping from his hair.

"One! Two! THREE!"

CRASH.

The hydraulic ram hit the deadbolt with the force of a battering ram. The metal frame groaned, bending inward.

CRASH.

A second strike shattered the electronic keypad into a shower of plastic sparks and severed wires.