Matt walked to the door and examined the lock.
"Bolt cutters will take care of this. I've got a pair in the storage closet."
"What's on the other side?"
"Tunnels. Old bootlegging tunnels from the Prohibition. They run under the whole block, connect to the river. No one's been down there in decades."
"Except you."
"Except me."
He turned to face me.
"You can use them. If you need to. For... whatever."
"You keep saying that. 'Whatever.'"
"Because I don't want to know."
"Even if it's murder?"
"Especially if it's murder."
He walked back to the stairs.
"I'll get the bolt cutters. You think about what else you need. Tools, supplies, whatever. Make a list."
"Matt."
"Yeah?"
"Why are you doing this?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Because I've been where you are. Not exactly. But close enough. And someone helped me when I needed it. Someone didn't ask questions. Someone gave me a chance."
"And now you're doing the same for me."
"That's how it works. Someone helps you. You help someone else. The world keeps spinning."
He walked up the stairs, and the door closed behind him, and I was alone in the basement.
I walked to the drain.
It was set into the concrete floor, a metal grate that was rusted around the edges. I knelt beside it and ran my fingers over the surface. The metal was cold. The grate was secure.
But it could be removed.
Bodies could be drained.
Evidence could be washed away.
I didn't remember learning this.
But I knew it.
The same way I knew how to hold a knife.
