by Lane Hart
Vault
Makenna Davies
I can’t remember who said it, but the claim was made that cellar-door is likely the most beautiful phrase in the English language. Heard out of context, the two words paired together evoke a melancholy that settles deep in my bones. An echo of beauty that feels forbidden.
I probably heard this in school, from some pretentious English teacher. There were a few of those. People who moved in and out of my life with no purpose.
Pieces of my life filter in past the dark, shallow glimpses, the light finding the cracks. I place my hand to the cold floor and capture a splinter of the rays.
Cellar door.
Cellar door.
Cellar door.
I repeat the phrase over and over, trying to force my mind not to recognize the meaning of the words. I want to hear them with a foreign ear; I want to know what they might mean to another woman.
His shadow moves across the light, blotting out the only warmth in the room.
My lungs cease to breathe.
I can’t inhale until the light returns.
I used to hold my breath during storms, counting the seconds after the strike, waiting for the roll of thunder. But the storms vanished the moment he stole me. A beautiful monster full of anguish and wrath tore me from my life.
Now, I’m his captive.
A way out always exists.
Only my mind rebels, insisting it’s the way in that must be found. A window to the soul. Through the eyes. I must’ve heard that in school once before, too.
He watches through ice-blue stained glass.
How does he see me?
How do I appear out of context?
Like the cellar door that conceals our secrets, if I repeat the truth enough, reciting it over and over, it loses meaning—becoming an obscure and distant version of our reality.
There is more than one door. There is an infinity of doors. All leading to where the bones of our darkest secrets haunt. We all have a cellar door of our own design.
My door is made of bone and ash.
Chapter One
The Moment Before
Makenna Davies
During a storm, there’s a moment between the flash and the strike where I hold my breath. A charged, suspended moment, as oxygen pulls in like the receding tide. Pressure builds. The current in the air penetrates my atoms.
I forget to breathe.
Then I’m released, a crashing wave, with the roll of thunder. I exhale the tension from my muscles and sinew as it eases back into the world.
In the seconds before the strike, I’m only aware of the wait, the anticipation, or dread, for what comes next. It’s a relief when the lightning crashes—a confirmation that storms go unchanged.
Most people spend their life in a sort of waiting pattern. A mantra built around the same tune: I’ll do it when it happens.
In other words, we wait to start living—really living—for when life falls into place. For that perfect thing we’ve been yearning for to land in our lap. A promotion. A significant other. Being thinner. Smarter. On and on.
I’m just as guilty. In the city of Seattle, securely nestled by water and concrete and everything trendy, I set up shop in the Lower Queen Anne district, heaving my bloated career over the hurdle of my last major failure. I got the space because I can view the Space Needle from my industrial, corrugated metal balcony. It was a beacon for resurrection.
Carpe deim.
Only I never quite seized anything but my grande mocha from the corner café across the street. Two months in my loft, and I’m still staring at the Space Needle from my glass desk, counting the seconds before the strike.
And waiting for what comes next.
File in hand, I ease out a breath with the bass roll of thunder, then flip to the first page. Jennifer Myer sits across from me in my loft apartment. She’s thirty-seven. Dyed blond. Dressed in a Chanel pantsuit. And likes to spend her husband’s millions.
Mr. Myer has recently put a cap on Mrs. Myer’s spending allowance due to “the economy,” and it’s made her suspicious. Especially since Mr. Myer hasn’t stopped spending money…receipts she discovered for hotel rooms, risky lingerie boutiques, and other various, skeptical activity.
She wants to hire me to eke out Mr. Myer’s cheating ways, so she can file for divorce.
I sip my mocha and set the file on the desk. “I’m not cheap,” I say to Jennifer.
She lifts her chin, collagen-filled lips pursed in firm resolve. “I have my own bank account, too,” she assures.
Good to know. I jot down a note on the back of her background check. I always do a surface check on anyone who wants to retain my services. Jennifer Myer has no priors, other than a handful of parking tickets. She hails from the California coast, where she dropped out of college to marry Milton Myer and raise their son.
Now that she’s no spring chick anymore (her words; not mine), she fears being traded in for a newer model, like the Bentley convertible her husband just upgraded to. She wants to strike first.
I lean back in my comfy swivel chair, interlace my fingers over my stomach. “I’ll need a list of your husband’s automobiles, along with a sure time he’ll be away from home for at least two hours.”
Her sharply groomed eyebrows draw together. “Why?”
“I need to install GPS trackers on his cars.” And search the residence.
Most men aren’t as secretive—or stealthy—as their women counterparts. You’d be amazed at what one can discover right out in the open. Credit card receipts left in pockets. Hotel registrations. Lingerie purchased for a mistress. I’m not even joking. I once found a silk nighty in the closet of one client—the nighty three sizes two small for said client.
“Fine,” Jennifer says. “Of course.” She uses her own pen to make a list of cars, then glances up as she slides the notepad across the glass desktop. Her watery blue gaze keeps flicking to my ponytail. Messy brown, natural strands escape the band. I can feel her disapproval.
“Thank you.” I slip the list into her file, noticing first the four cars listed. Nice.
Even if nothing pans out, this will still be a worthwhile job.
Jennifer flips her silky blond hair off her shoulder. She flips her hair with purpose, in a way that states every woman she’s ever come into contact with must be envious of her.
And truthfully, I am.
I envy her very simple, boring life—a life where her biggest worry is fine lines cropping up around her eyes, her smile lines, so she tries not to smile as much.
Maybe I’m being too judgmental but, according to her background check, I can’t believe Jennifer Myer has ever suffered any real pain, the unbearable kind, where it hurts to breathe, to move, to live.
I envy so many people their boring and uneventful lives.
My family was torn apart by drugs. I suffered the deep-seated kind of pain, the torment of loss, where you don’t want the next minute to pass, fearful of what the future will punish you with next.
I took that pain with me to the precinct, and I found a way to channel it.
Then I found someone to get lost with.
But what life has taught me—what it continues to teach me—is that if you’re breathing, you’re fighting. Even if it feels like death.
The woman in my office doesn’t sit at her window and focus on breathing through the storm. But that’s okay. There’s a place for everyone. If you’re not one of the Jennifers of the world, then you’re the other type.
The me type.
I try not to let that reality make me rife with bitter resentment.
“How often are men actually caught?” Jennifer asks, bringing my attention back on her and her dilemma.
A lot of women come to me because they want their suspicions, their gut instincts, to be proven wrong. They don’t want to do the dirty deep dive into their husband’s lives themselves, fearful of what they’ll uncover.
I always tell them exactly what I’m about to tell Jennifer Myer: �
�If you’re here, then you probably already know the truth.”
Which in Jennifer’s case is cha-ching to her ears. She picks up her Prada purse from the floor and stands over my desk. “Milton is going away for a business trip tomorrow. You can start then.”
She secures my services with a check, which covers the four GPS trackers and monitoring for a month. Any field work I’ll bill out in hourly increments.
“Thank you, Ms. Davies,” she says, and the title has a niggling sting. I wasn’t Detective Davies for that long, but I’d gotten used to it.
“Makenna is fine,” I say.
“All right. Makenna. Please report any updates to the cell number I gave you.”
Her secret phone—the one her husband doesn’t know about—that I’m sure is being used for her own tawdry affairs. But, hey, who am I to judge? The check she just wrote will pay my rent for three months.
As she climbs into the elevator, complaining about having to use the rusty old building lift, I swivel my chair to face the row of windows that highlight the Seattle cityscape.
Six months ago, I’d have balked at the idea of becoming a private investigator. Hell, I’d have been insulted. It’s depressing what we accept when our options are limited.
In as little as five years with the Seattle PD, I made detective, and I lost the title in under a year.
The patter of rain plinks against the windowpanes. Before the storm builds into a downpour, I grab my bag and jacket and head out. More reconnaissance on Milton Myer is needed.
I close the grating to the lift just as a flash of lightning illuminates my cold loft.
I hold my breath on the way down.
Most cheaters have at least one thing in common. They’re unoriginal. Honestly, even with the abundance of information online on how to evade being caught, they typically make the same mistakes. It’s human nature to believe you’re of above intelligence, especially for a self-made business man like Myer.
At around 11:00 p.m., I’m parked across the street from Myer Keystone Enterprise, Nikon camera lens trained on the floor-to-ceiling windows of Myer’s office on the fourth floor.
Men are lazy when it comes to cheating. They work within their immediate environment. Most settle on the hot young secretary. It’s a cliché for a reason; it’s convenient.
Milton Myer isn’t alone in his office, but he’s not entertaining his secretary, either. I zoom in the lens, trying to get a clear view through the tinted office window. Another man around Myer’s age stands adjacent to him, hands balled into fists at his side. His countenance appears hostile.
I capture a picture.
Milton holds up his hands in defense as the other man storms his way. I straighten up and press closer to my car window. The lens butts the glass. I whisper a curse and hit the control to lower the window, and in the short time it takes to do this, the man has wrapped his hands around Milton’s neck.
Shit.
I glance around, looking for someone to intervene. There’s no one. The office building is closed. I reach beneath my jacket and unclasp the snap on my gun holster, then grab the door handle.
I’m not a cop.
Not anymore.
PIs watch; they don’t interfere.
Would a regular citizen intervene?
Depends on the citizen. I know this for a fact.
But I’ve taken too long to make my choice. Milton has broken the man’s chokehold and races for the door. I grip my camera and refocus the lens. In a matter of seconds, Milton is through the door and barreling down the hallway. I lose sight of him…and the man enters my view.
A gun outstretched in his hand.
Without thought, I snap a picture, then toss the camera on the passenger seat and open my door.
A shot rings out.
One foot planted on pavement, the other inside the car, I hold my breath. A second shot is fired, forcing me into motion, and I move.
I tear across the street, Glock held at my thigh, my other hand dialing 9-1-1 on my cellphone. I give the operator a brief rundown of what I witnessed and the address before ending the call so I can grasp the weapon with both hands.
Rounding the corner of the building, I creep into the parking garage. I expect to see security, but the gate is vacated. I look inside the gatehouse. A man in uniform is lying on the floor.
My heart speeds. Adrenaline scorches my veins. I swallow down the heavy thud in my ears and open the door. I check his neck quickly for vitals. He’s dead, but not cold to the touch.
The man who shot Milton Myer is the most likely suspect for ending the security officer’s life. Which means he came here with the premeditated intent to end Milton’s also.
But why plan a murder in an office building?
It feels sloppy. Too many possible witnesses.
I have a picture of him.
Getting my bearings and thoughts corralled, I push past the gate and head toward the elevator. My footfalls sound too loud as they bounce off the cement and echo back at me. I wait half a minute, braced against the cement wall near the elevator door, to hear the sound of sirens.
They’re too far off.
I hit the button to go up.
I’m trained. I’ve been in similar situations. Yet fear pushes at my reasoning, the shrill voice of doubt grates my nerves.
I’m not a detective for a reason.
I fucked up.
As the doors slide apart, I propel myself inside and ascend upward before rational thought can stop me again. I check my piece to confirm a round is chambered, then I brace myself and let the adrenaline steer my course. I flatten my back against the steel wall and wait for the doors to open to the fourth floor.
It’s muscle memory. My body knows what procedure to follow, even as panic roars in my head like a twister.
One brief moment to breathe; I shut my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. The storm surrounds me. I hear the whir of the elevator coming to a stop. Then my eyes are open and laser-focused. My senses come alive.
I prop my booted foot against the elevator door to prevent it from closing and check the hallway. The lights have been dimmed. A soft glow filters through the offices. It’s quiet. Farther down, Milton is sprawled on the tile floor. Blood blooms around his head in a thick pool. I clear both hallways on either side of the elevator before I step out.
A flashback of my last case threatens to emerge, the sight and stillness rushing my conscious mind—but I tamp it down. Not now. I’m too close.
Once I’m sure there’s no immediate danger, I kneel next to Milton and check for a pulse. Nothing. Gunshot to the forehead. A professional shooter. People have survived a bullet to the head before, but Milton Myer isn’t one of the lucky few.
His unseeing, cataract eyes stare up at me.
Where did the second bullet go?
I glance at the bank of elevators. There are three sets of doors. A light flashes above the middle door overhead—the police are on their way up. I shove my weapon into the holster of my chest harness and make for the emergency stairwell.
I hustle through the door just as the ding sounds.
I breathe heavily through my nose, centering myself, as I travel down the stairs. I’m not evading the police, I tell myself. I just can’t let the shooter escape.
I slow my steps as I reach the ground level. This is the only way he could’ve come. He wouldn’t chance getting stuck in an elevator, or going to the roof. Easing the door open, I scan the parking garage. Two uniforms are investigating the dead security officer.
Muttering a curse, I slide through the narrow crack of the open door. I decide to go the opposite way. One, because it’s going to be damn difficult to slip past cops. And two, the shooter would probably do the same. He wouldn’t double back where he left a dead man.
Think like the perpetrator. That’s what Hudson always said.
There’s only one way in, so there’s only one way out. I maneuver past parked vehicles toward the back of the garage. All activity is at the front of th
e building. I keep to the third row, slinking as low as I can…before I stop.
I make out a silhouette in a black sedan two cars over.
Even if he wasn’t expecting the cops to show so soon, he’d want a clear escape. He’s an expert shot but not meticulous enough to devise an exit strategy? It’s hard to profile a perp with having only witnessed a murder, but everything about this scenario feels off in my bones.
The sedan’s taillights glow red.
Shit. He’s making a run for it.
I act fast; I have to take the risk. After nearly six months, he’s my only lead. Hunched down low, which isn’t too difficult at 5’1”, I maneuver between cars, coming up on his just as he pulls forward and cuts his wheel sharply to the left.
I roll under the car and pop a GPS tracker on the undercarriage.
Got you.
I flatten my body to the ground as the car pulls away, leaving me behind.
I’m only given a moment to breathe a sigh of relief before the shooting begins.
Chapter Two
Strike Twice
Makenna Davies
The first shot is fired in warning. It comes from the black sedan, the reverberating echo deafening in the concrete parking garage. My ears ring with the muted quality that blocks out all other sound, but I pick up the muffled crossfire as my senses adjust. The two uniforms at the security gatehouse are retaliating.
I collect myself and hunker near the back tire of an SUV and cover my head. A moment of reprieve, where the shots stop, and I peek around the bumper.
I catch a glimpse of the sedan as it speeds past security and crashes through the gate. The windows on the car are intact. The indention of bullets blanket the side of the vehicle, but there are no holes. The car is bulletproof.
A hired hitman. It’s a logical leap. This thought spurs me out of my hiding spot, and I grip my weapon as I make for the other side of the garage. I note the two cops; they’re alive and calling in the shootout. With how accurate the shooter’s aim was before, I have to believe he left them alive on purpose. While the cops are distracted, I rush through the exit door that leads to the side of the building.