Page 61 of 4th Silence

Panic room.

Has to be.

Holy hell.

I should turn back. I’ve been gone ten minutes already.

But I’m here.

I charge in and lift the sofa cushions. I find a bed and—a perfect hiding place—give the frame a good heave, opening it. Nothing.

I lift the mattress—nothing—then climb across it, checking the inside of the sofa.

Damn it.

The bunk bed is next. Same routine. Nothing.

I check behind every can, inside the crockpot, and the toaster oven.

I stand, scanning the room. What am I missing?

The table. I hustle over, eyeing the seam down the middle. Expandable. I grab an end and pull.

Hello.

Something in my chest kicks. It’s like an all-out assault, and I let out a gasp.

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

In the compartment where the extra leaf should be sits a pristine black snakeskin purse.

A Sherman.

Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

My phone blares again. Crazy Train.

I flinch so hard my neck locks.

I fumble for the device, jabbing it to silent just as the call goes to voicemail.

Before I can shove it away, a text from Mom pops in.

Where’s my lunch? Are you okay?

I’m about to tap back a quick reply, just as a squeak from behind me sounds. Then I hear voices. Charlie’s, getting louder as if trying to warn me.

I turn—slowly.

The door beside the sofa creaks open.

Run. It’s all I can think. Down the tunnel. Get out.

Too late.

Alex steps into the doorway, Charlie’s face peeking over his shoulder.

“What the hell?” he asks.