Chapter 10 - The Secret in the Subfloor
The basement of the farmhouse was an old stone cellar, built in the early 1900s, cool and dry, with thick hand-hewn oak beams supporting the subfloor above. It was where Sasha stored her canned tomatoes, apple preserves, and seasonal gardening tools.
When Frank and I descended the wooden steps, Clara was pointing a heavy work flashlight into the crawlspace directly beneath the master bedroom.
Two of the church women, Martha and Sarah, were standing nearby, looking visibly unsettled.
"What is it, Clara?" I asked, stepping off the last stair.
"Derek spent a lot of time down here 'fixing the plumbing,' according to Sasha," Clara said, her voice dripping with suspicion. "Well, take a look at what he was really doing to the main support beam."
I knelt down, shining my phone light into the alcove.
My breath hitched.
Derek hadn't been fixing pipes. He had used a reciprocating saw to cut halfway through two of the main load-bearing joists directly under the master bathroom’s cast-iron soaking tub. Tucked into the cut gaps were wooden shims, barely holding the weight of the tub above.
Attached to one of the shims was a thin nylon cord that ran along the foundation wall, through a drilled hole in the mortar, leading directly outside toward the rear crawlspace vent.
Frank dropped to one knee beside me, his legal composure instantly vanishing into cold fury.
"Good God," Frank whispered.
"If someone yanked that cord from the outside while that two-hundred-pound cast-iron tub was filled with water," I said, my voice shaking with pure horror, "the entire subfloor would collapse into this cellar."
"And who took baths in that soaking tub every single evening at eight o'clock?" Clara asked, her voice trembling with rage.
"Sasha," I choked out.
The room went dead silent. The damp chill of the cellar seemed to seep directly into our bones.
This hadn't been merely a plan to force her signature on a deed. It had been a contingency plan. If Sasha refused to sign, or if she threatened to report them to the police, Omar and Derek had prepared an "unfortunate household accident"—a structural failure in an old country farmhouse that would leave Omar as the surviving, grieving widower inheriting the entire estate through probate.
"Frank," I said, rising slowly to my feet. Every maternal instinct in my body turned to pure, unadulterated venom. "Call the state police. Right now. Tell them to send the forensic unit."
Frank was already dialing. "I’m calling the district attorney directly. This is attempted murder."
Before Frank could connect, a high-pitched scream echoed from upstairs.
It was Sasha.
I bolted up the cellar stairs three at a time, moving faster than I had in twenty years, the adrenaline surging through my veins like fire. Clara and Martha were right behind me.
I burst into the kitchen.
Sasha was standing near the bay window, clutching her phone to her chest, her face as white as a sheet of paper. Outside, parked at the end of the gravel driveway near the county road, was a beat-up red sedan.
Standing beside the open driver’s door was Derek.
He wasn't trying to approach the house. He was holding a pair of heavy binoculars, staring intently at the front porch. In his other hand, he held a black plastic remote transmitter—the kind used for remote car starters or electronic relays.
My phone chimed in my pocket. A text message from an unknown number flashed across the screen:
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**TELL SASHA TO SIGN THE QUITCLAIM AND DROP THE CHARGES, OR THIS HOUSE GOES DOWN WITH EVERYONE INSIDE IT. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES.**
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