“Don’t go to the basement,” my boss warned before hanging up. I brushed it off as another odd demand from a man full of quirks. But when I stepped into his house and heard what his daughter said about the basement, I couldn’t resist looking.
Six months ago, fresh out of architecture school, I dreamed of designing buildings, not fetching coffee. Working for Mr. Miles, a genius in the field but impossible to work for, was a far cry from my expectations. My days were a blur of menial errands and dodging his ex-wife’s calls.
Then came his cryptic call last Tuesday. “Kara, pick Chloe up from school. She’s unwell. Take her home and stay until I’m back. Oh, and don’t go to the basement.”
I picked up Chloe, pale and clutching her stomach. On the way to her father’s house, she whispered, “I need Rodger.”
Confused, I asked who Rodger was. Her tearful response chilled me: “My little brother. Dad left him in the basement.”
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