Chapter 4
The crowbars were the only thing in the room that looked new.
They'd been lying there since morning, two of them with red handles, plastic still glossy where the concrete dust hadn't settled. The tape measure was beside them, its metal tongue sticking out a few inches where I'd left it. I hadn't touched either tool since Emma started crying. I'd been holding her instead, one arm around her chest, her dress damp against my shirt.
Sarah stood in the doorway now. She hadn't come in. Her arms were crossed tight, like she was cold, though the room was warm from the low sun coming through that small window.
"What are you doing?" she said.
I didn't answer right away. I crouched and picked up the heavier crowbar. It was heavier than I expected. The balance was off, head-heavy. I let the weight settle in my palm.
"I want to see if it moves," I said.
Emma was still against my leg. She'd stopped sobbing but her breathing was loud, that hitched way kids breathe after they've been crying hard. Her hand found the bottom of my shirt and held on.
"Dad, don't break it," she whispered. "Just listen."
Sarah took a step into the room. Dust lifted around her shoes.
"Daniel, put that down. That's not ours to pry off."
I looked at the wardrobe. Eight feet tall, dark walnut, paneled doors that caught no light. It sat flush against the patched drywall on the right wall. Too flush. I'd noticed it that morning when we carried it in with the delivery guys, how they'd pushed it straight back without shimming it.
"What do you mean not ours?" I said.
Sarah's mouth tightened. A small pause before she spoke, that micro-hesitation she did when she was choosing what to leave out.
"The woman we bought from," she said. "The previous owner. When we did the walkthrough, she said that wall had work done. She asked us not to open that section. She said it was sealed for insulation."
That stopped me. The crowbar felt heavier.
"She asked you not to open it and you didn't tell me?" I said.
"I forgot," Sarah said. Quick, too quick. "It seemed like nothing. She was old, she was particular about that room. I thought she meant don't drill into it."
Emma tugged at my shirt.
"I knocked," she said. Her voice was small but clear. "I knocked and it knocked back."
Sarah looked down at her. "Emma, honey—"
"I did," Emma said, louder. She let go of me and stepped toward the wardrobe, her dress brushing the dust. She made a fist and tapped twice on the side panel, light knocks that thudded dully against the wood. Then she held her breath.
We all did. For a second there was nothing, just the hum of the house. Then a faint sound from behind the wood — not an echo. Two soft taps back, spaced exactly the same, muffled like they came through drywall and air.
My stomach dropped.
Sarah's arms unfolded. Her hand went to her mouth.
"Did you hear that?" I said. I was breathing hard without realizing it.
Sarah nodded once, slow. "That's pipes," she whispered, but she didn't sound like she believed it.
"It wasn't pipes," Emma said. "It answered me."
I set the crowbar down and put both hands on the side of the wardrobe. The wood was cool, smooth. I pushed, experimentally. It didn't budge. Not even a creak. A freestanding wardrobe that size, even loaded, should shift a little when you shove it. This didn't.
I crouched and ran my hand along the bottom edge where it met the baseboard. Dust had collected there, but when I brushed it away I saw it — two silver screw heads, countersunk into the side panel and driven straight into the wall. Not into drywall. Into something solid behind it.
I felt along the other side. Same thing. Two more.
"It's screwed in," I said. I sat back on my heels and looked up at Sarah. "This isn't furniture. It's covering something."
Sarah stared at the screws. Her face had gone pale in the low warm light. The patched drywall above the wardrobe suddenly made sense — the spackle, the uneven paint. Not a repair. A patch job to hide where they'd framed something in.
"I thought she just didn't want us to scuff the paint," Sarah said quietly. Her voice was thin.
Emma leaned her cheek against the wardrobe's door. She wasn't crying now. She just listened, her eyes closed, her small hand flat on the wood.
"There's something back there, Dad," she said. "I heard it moving."
I stood up. My hand was back on the crowbar, but I didn't lift it yet. I looked at the screw heads, at the tools on the floor, at Sarah's face. We all understood at the same time what the wardrobe was. Not a wardrobe against a wall. A door nailed shut.
Sarah reached out and put her hand on my arm. Her grip was tight.
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"Don't pull it off yet," she said.
I didn't. The crowbar stayed on the concrete. But I didn't put it back down either.
