Chapter 6
I didn't move right away. The crowbar was heavy in my hand, heavier than it should have been, and Sarah's fingers tightened around Emma at the window.
We'd all heard it. That soft shift behind the drywall, like something settling that shouldn't settle. No one could pretend it was the house breathing anymore.
"Daniel," Sarah said. Her voice was low. "Do we have to do this right now?"
Emma pressed her cheek against Sarah's leg and stared at the wardrobe. Her cheeks were still wet. She hadn't stopped pointing, even while holding onto her mom's jeans.
"We already agreed to look," I said. "Not to break the wall. Just to move this."
The wardrobe stood like it had grown out of the wall. Eight feet of dark walnut, paneled doors catching the low warm light. Its top brushed the unfinished ceiling where the spackle had been left uneven. Dust hung in the air around it.
I set the tape measure aside and crouched. The floor was bare concrete, grit under my knees. Someone had screwed the wardrobe's back rail directly into the studs. Two flat-head screws, painted over, sunk into patched drywall. Not furniture anchors. Construction screws. The kind you use when you don't want something to move again.
My throat went tight.
"Who screws a wardrobe to the wall like this?" I said, half to myself.
Sarah didn't answer. She pulled Emma a step further back toward the small window. The light there was grayer, cooler. "Keep her right there," I said. "Don't let her come closer until I say."
Sarah nodded. She wrapped both arms around Emma's shoulders. Emma's hands fisted in her dress.
I fit the flat end of the red-handled crowbar behind the side rail. The metal was cold. The wood creaked before the screw even moved. I didn't yank. I let the bar do the work, slow pressure against the stud.
The first screw groaned. Paint cracked around the head in a little white halo. I worked it back and forth, breathing through my nose, trying to keep my hands steady. The sound was loud in that small room. Wood against metal, then the shriek of the screw pulling free.
Dust fell from the seam where the wardrobe met the wall. A thin line of it sifted down and settled on my shirt.
"Easy," Sarah whispered. She wasn't talking to me. She was rocking Emma, her chin on top of Emma's blonde hair.
The screw came out. I set it on the concrete. It was longer than I'd expected. Two and a half inches. Overkill for a wardrobe.
The second one was tighter. The crowbar slipped once and I caught myself on the wardrobe's side. The walnut was smooth and cool under my palm. I reset the bar, found the angle, and pushed with my shoulder instead of my wrist. My stubble scraped against the wood as I leaned in.
"Dad," Emma said, small and hoarse from crying. "Don't break it."
"I'm not breaking it, baby. I'm just moving it forward," I said. I didn't look back at her. Couldn't. If I saw her face again I'd stop.
The second screw gave all at once with a pop. The wardrobe lurched a quarter inch forward on its base and I had to brace it with my forearm so it wouldn't tip. My heart hammered against my ribs. Dust rained harder this time, a gray veil that caught the warm light.
That was when I saw it.
Behind where the side rail had been, the drywall wasn't patched randomly. There was a seam. Tape, mudded over and painted, but the line was straight. Too straight. It ran vertical, floor to almost ceiling, then cut horizontal about seven feet up. The outline of a doorway. Or a closet. Sealed shut and skimmed over so you wouldn't see it if you weren't looking from six inches away.
I sat back on my heels, crowbar still in my hand, and stared.
Sarah made a small sound. "What is that?"
I didn't answer yet. I put both hands on the side of the wardrobe and pushed. It was dead weight. Solid walnut, empty or not, it didn't want to move. I got my shoulder into it and shoved, feet sliding on the dusty concrete.
It moved. An inch. Then another, with a low grinding scrape. More dust puffed out from behind it. The taped seam stayed where it was, revealing more of itself as the wardrobe inched forward. The outline grew clearer. The rectangle was door-sized, the tape yellowed at the edges under the fresh white spackle. Someone had tried to hide it twice. An old seal, then a newer skim coat to make it disappear again.
"That's enough," Sarah said quickly. "Daniel, that's enough, stop."
I stopped pushing when the wardrobe was about six inches off the wall, angled just enough that we could see the full seam but not enough to pull it free into the room. The space behind it was narrow and dark and smelled faintly of old wood and plaster.
Emma strained against Sarah's arms, up on her toes by the window.
"What is it?" she asked.
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I looked at the sealed doorway, at the two screws on the floor, at my daughter's face reflected in the dim light. My hands were shaking.
"It's a door," I said. "They covered a door."
