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I slip on one of his shirts and head out the door.
But before I close it behind me, I say something that's been playing on my mind, ‘Anthony, you've looked into families that could have hired Atwell.’
As well as possible moles. But have you looked into Atwell himself?
What if he has a personal motive you have your father or you out of the picture?
Just a thought," I say, as I observe him focus on my words.
He nods, and gets back his computer, while I close the door quietly behind me.
The safe house is all cold marble and dark wood.
My steps echo as I wander the halls, running my hands over antique furnishings and oil paintings in gilded frames.
It's a world away from my usual modern mansion.
I wonder if this is the life I'll have now - opulence masking something sinister beneath the surface.
Hiding, running, looking over my shoulder.
No freedom, no escape.
But maybe with Anthony, I can find a way through.
We just have to take it one day at a time.
I make my way to the living room, fingers trailing over the vintage record player.
It's state of the art for its time, all shiny brass and real wood.
I flip through the small collection of records, but nothing catches my eye.
There must be more somewhere.
I think back to the winding halls and many closed doors.
This place is like a maze.
Wandering over to a bookcase, I notice a door tucked away in the corner.
Cellar, a faded sign reads.
That seems promising.
I tug it open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.
A damp, earthy smell drifts up as I descend.
The stairs creak under my bare feet.
I run my hand along the rough stone wall to steady myself.
At the bottom, I fumble along the wall until I find a light switch.
A single bulb flickers on, casting ominous shadows.
I'm surrounded by brick arches and iron barred storage rooms.
