The smell hit me first.

Not the smell of something rotten.

Something older.

Damp concrete. Dust. Air that hadn’t moved in years.

I instinctively pulled the girls behind me.

“Stay upstairs,” I said quickly.

But Grace shook her head.

“No, Mommy likes when we visit.”

My stomach twisted.

The basement stairs creaked beneath my feet as I slowly descended into darkness.

A single lamp glowed faintly in the corner.

And then I saw it.

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Not a person.

A room.

A fully furnished room.

My breath caught instantly.

There was a bed neatly made with floral blankets.

A bookshelf.

Family photos.

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Children’s drawings taped carefully to the walls.

And at the center of it all—

a large framed portrait of Daniel’s late wife, Rebecca.

Candles surrounded the picture like some kind of shrine.

I stared in disbelief.

This wasn’t storage.

This was obsession.

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Behind me, little Emily smiled innocently.

“Daddy brings flowers down here every week.”

A chill ran through my entire body.

I stepped further inside slowly.

There were dozens of notebooks stacked neatly beside the bed.

One lay open.

My hands trembled as I picked it up.

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