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Kimberly held up the brass key. “Would this help?”
Immediately the girl was in front of her, eyes wide. She grabbed the key, then careened down the hall to the heavy wooden doors.
Even from here, Kimberly could tell the huge brass lock appeared to be the perfect match for the key. The girl inserted the old key and gave a hard twist. A resounding click echoed down the narrow hall.
The girl shoved both doors open, nearly falling into the room. A fresh rush of cold air greeted all of them. Then D.D. and Kimberly moved forward.
—
COMPARED TO THE CORRIDOR, THE room was enormous. Old. Again the smooth stone floor, colored somewhere between gray and black. A massive stone hearth, which dominated the side wall and featured giant slabs of granite.
Kimberly could smell ash, so the hearth had recently been used—and thank goodness. Given the pervasive chill, she couldn’t imagine staying in this room during any season without a fire.
They were beneath the earth, so there were no windows. Just more of the old brass lights, which she flicked on with a switch. In the back of the room loomed a huge oak table, large enough to seat twelve if not sixteen. Before it sat a long dark leather sofa with half a dozen wingback chairs arranged around it in a semi-circle.
A gathering space. But for what? Kimberly couldn’t see any evidence of a TV, or electronics of any kind. What would make a dozen people want to sit in this room in the bowels of the earth?
The girl stood in front of the sofa. She pointed at the floor. Stomped her foot.
D.D. had moved closer to her. Now the detective reached down, inspected the stone floor. “I don’t see anything.”
Another foot stomp, the girl clearly frustrated.
Kimberly spoke up, “You gave Sergeant Warren a drawing. Of a demon. Was that from you?”
Frantic nod.
“That demon, was he here?”
Very fast nodding now.
“He’s a man,” D.D. said.
Yes yes yes yes yes yes.
“Is he here now?” Kimberly asked.
Shrug. Fear plain on her face.
“What about last night?”
Yes!
“With Martha and Mayor Howard?”
Yes yes yes yes yes yes.
“Bonita,” D.D. said slowly, “is he the one who hurt Mrs. Counsel?”
Yes!
Kimberly drifted closer. She peered at the floor, then around the room. She couldn’t make out any obvious signs of blood or violence. Then again, the only way to fake a hanging was to actually strangle the victim. A relatively clean death. She would have to bring in an evidence team. There were chemicals that could be sprayed that would reveal traces of blood. Of course, the older the residence, the harder it was to prove that blood was a recent event. It seemed most buildings had stories of violence to tell.
She walked the space, sniffed the hearth, held out her hands for warmth. It had definitely been used recently—though again, that didn’t prove anything. And their interrogation of Bonita wouldn’t be enough. By definition, they had to ask her yes-or-no questions. Technically, that was leading a witness—and given she also was a minor, it wouldn’t hold up in court.
They would have to call in some kind of forensic interview specialist, because this was clearly outside Kimberly and D.D.’s wheelhouse. They were simply doing what good investigators did—making it up as they went along.
Kimberly glanced at the doors. The very large, very heavy, very solid oak doors, kept locked at all times, with a key hidden in a safe. What was it about this room that demanded such security?
