Free Into the Devil's Underground by Stacy Green Page A

only people who called her were her boss, Jeremy, or sometimes his wife. An employee calling in sick. That was it. Nothing special in her life.
    “You hadn’t noticed anyone following you or the same person turning up wherever you went?”
    “No.”
    Ronson applied Chapstick with a careful, delicate touch—a gesture that contrasted the rest of her demeanor. “Why didn’t you know about the door? You’re the branch manager.”
    “The building is only about five years old, but the basement is an original foundation from a previous building,” Emilie said. “That room has been storage since the bank was built. The drywall’s been there for as long as I have. In fact, it needed to be replaced. My boss and I had been talking about doing that.”
    “Was the previous building a bank?”
    “No, an old hotel—one of the city’s first. WestOne bought the property for its new location. Building inspectors said the foundation was solid, so the architect saw no reason to tear it out.” A sudden thought occurred to Emilie. “The wall’s been blocked by boxes and old equipment for a long time. When did he move that stuff? He didn’t do it today.”
    Ronson glanced at the floor, licking her freshly moistened lips. Bits and pieces of realization began to kick in. Emilie couldn’t stop talking. “And after he got the drywall off, how did he get the door open? It had to have been sealed for years.”
    Agent Ronson focused on her notes. “I don’t like to jump to conclusions.”
    “You’re an FBI agent,” Emilie snapped. “You’ve got instincts, right? What does your gut tell you?”
    “This is a complicated individual.” Ronson folded her arms, notebook still in her hand. She watched Emilie as if bracing for a meltdown. She’s probably dealt with hundreds of freaked out, rambling victims. “We’ve only touched the surface of what he’s capable of.”
    “Why did he try to take me from the bank?” Emilie asked the other question that was driving her crazy. “Snatching me from my apartment would have been easier.”
    “That’s one of the first questions I want answered,” Ronson said. “He referred to Dante, talked about the road to hell. It sounds as if he needed to take you into the tunnels, as if that is part of his compulsion.”
    “You never answered my first question.” Emilie’s head spun. “How did he get the door open? How did he find out about the tunnel? And not only an escape tunnel under the bank but one that led to the storm drain system?”
    “You told us the storage room door should have been locked,” Ronson said. “Who has keys?”
    “Me. Jeremy, the branch president; Lisa, my loan officer; and Miranda, my head teller. Lisa has a bad habit of leaving hers lying around. Someone could have made a copy.” A wave of fear rippled up her spine. “What are you getting at?”
    Ronson stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her suit. She laid a smooth hand on Emilie’s arm. “I don’t want to further upset you, but at this point, we have to assume he had help.”
    “What kind of help?” She knew what the agent was going to say. There was only one possible answer.
    “The kind that only someone with inside knowledge of the bank would have.”
    Emilie dropped her head to her hands. That meant someone she worked with disliked her. She knew exactly who that someone would be. Lisa had worked at the bank longer than Emilie, and her sights had always been set on management. Her unfriendly attitude and inability to work with others had squashed that hope. She’d been furious when Emilie was promoted to branch manager.
    “Lisa.” Emilie chest hurt with the force of her exhale. “She left at noon today, and she’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

7
    N ATHAN CLENCHED HIS teeth and counted the flecks in the tile floor as the doctor stitched his wound. It wasn’t the pain—a strong shot had taken care of that—but the peculiar feeling of the thread moving inside his skin.
    “Since you didn’t