The greenhouse door was locked from the outside.
Arga heard it again—the scrape of metal, footsteps stopping right behind the glass wall, then a silence more frightening than any sound.
Elara was still holding his hand.
“The basement,” Arga repeated. “Are there bodies down there?”
“If they haven’t been moved.”
“And you’re only mentioning this now?”
“I needed to know whether you’d run when you heard.”
Arga stared at her face. “I came to kidnap you, not take a house tour.”
“Then consider this part of the job.”
Elara pulled him toward the corner of the greenhouse. Between the vines and porcelain pots, there was a narrow door that nearly blended into the wall. She knelt, lifted a wooden board beneath the shelving, and revealed a tiny keyhole.
The key she had slipped into Arga’s palm earlier felt cold.
“Open it.”
Arga inserted the key. Before he could turn it, he heard a voice outside.
“Is the young lady inside?”
A man’s voice. Calm. Too calm.
Elara leaned close to his ear. “If they get in, don’t let me speak.”
“Why?”
“Because I might ask them to kill you.”
Their eyes met. For a moment, Arga couldn’t tell whether the girl was joking.
Then Elara smiled faintly.
She wasn’t joking.
Arga turned the key.
The small door opened without a sound, revealing a dark passage sloping downward. The smell of wet earth immediately crept out. The same smell as the rain in his dream.
Elara went in first.
Arga closed the door behind them just as the greenhouse door handle began to move.
Darkness swallowed them.
The passage was narrow and made of old stone. Along the left wall, small lights switched on automatically one by one, as if the house knew they were passing through. Arga felt along the wall to keep from slipping. The expensive suit he had seen in his dream had never come with him; he was still wearing a worn jacket and canvas shoes that were beginning to let in water.
Elara walked without hesitation.
“You’ve been here before,” Arga said.
“Many times.”
“To see the bodies?”
“To make sure I hadn’t become the next one.”
They continued downward.
At the bottom of the stairs, the passage widened into a low-ceilinged room with an earthen floor. There was an iron table, several old cabinets, and a hanging lamp whose light pulsed like the breath of a sick person.
In the middle of the room, the soil looked newer than the rest.
Arga stopped.
“There?”
Elara nodded.
She took a small shovel from beside the cabinet and handed it to Arga.
“Dig.”
Arga stared at the shovel. “You really planned everything.”
“I’ve been planning my escape for six years.”
“Why wait until now?”
“Because before this, I didn’t have you.”
The sentence was simple, but it made Arga’s chest tighten. He didn’t know what disturbed him more: the possibility that Elara was using him, or the fact that he wanted the girl to trust him.
He began to dig.
Wet soil clung to the tips of his shoes. Every thrust of the shovel made a heavy sound that echoed through the room. Elara stood beside him, holding an oil lamp, her face pale beneath the yellow light.
After a few minutes, Arga’s shovel struck something.
The sound was short.
Hard.
Arga crouched and brushed the soil away with his hands. His fingers touched coarse fabric, then something cold and round.
A bone.
He drew a breath but didn’t retreat.
Elara knelt beside him. “Keep going.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Damar.”
“Who’s Damar?”
Elara didn’t answer.
Arga dug deeper. Slowly, a human skeleton emerged from the earth. A ruined shirt, a leather belt, and a small pendant still clung to the bones of its neck.
Elara saw the pendant.
The color drained from her face.
“He was my brother.”
Arga looked at her. “You said you were an only child.”
“That’s what my family told me.”
“Then who buried him here?”
Elara reached for the pendant, but her hand stopped a few inches above the ground.
“The same person who killed my mother.”
Arga didn’t answer right away. Above them, the mansion suddenly gave off a booming thud. Dust fell from the ceiling.
Someone had found the entrance.
Elara grabbed Arga’s arm. “We have to go.”
“Not yet.”
He picked up the pendant and opened it. Inside was a tiny photograph of a boy. His face looked remarkably like Elara’s.
On the back of the photograph, there was handwriting.
Don’t trust Rafael.
Arga raised his head. “Your father?”
Elara nodded.
Footsteps sounded in the passage.
One.
Two.
Three.
Arga stood and gripped the shovel. His hand was trembling, but this time it wasn’t from fear. There was something he had never had before—a reason to hold on for a few more minutes.
Elara looked at the shovel in his hand.
“You don’t have to fight him.”
“I know.”
“You can leave me.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Arga looked at the skeleton in the ground, then at Elara’s face.
“Because I’ve come this far.”
Elara laughed softly. Her voice nearly broke.
“You always make bad decisions with a look on your face like it’s bravery.”
“Maybe because I’ve never had the chance to make a good one.”
The footsteps stopped behind the passage door.
A voice spoke.
“Arga.”
Arga’s blood turned cold.
It didn’t belong to a stranger.
It was the voice of the faceless man from his dream.
Elara tightened her grip on his hand. This time, she wasn’t trying to pull him away. She pressed herself against Arga’s side, as if being close could make it harder for them to be separated.
The passage door opened.
A man stood in the doorway, wearing a gray suit. His face was clear, but Arga couldn’t remember it. Every time he tried to look at him, the man’s features seemed to shift inside his mind.
The man smiled.
“Don’t you want to know,” he said, “what you’ll get after you bring Elara to me?”
Arga raised the shovel.
Elara whispered, “Don’t listen to him.”
The man stepped down one stair.
“A house. Money. A new name. A life that no longer makes you feel small.”
Arga looked at Elara. She was pale, but she didn’t let go of his hand.
“And if I refuse?”
The man’s smile vanished.
“If you refuse, Elara will be dead before midnight.”
The lights in the basement went out.
In the darkness, Elara pulled Arga closer. Her lips touched his ear, and her breath felt warm against his skin.
“If I die,” she whispered, “never believe that any of this started because of you.”
Then something slammed into the metal door behind them.
Arga gripped Elara’s hand.
For the first time, he wasn’t thinking about money.
He was only thinking about how to get the girl out alive—even if afterward he had to lose the entire life he had been promised.
In the darkness, the faceless man’s voice sounded once more.
“Good,” he said. “Now the dream is finally starting to belong to you.”