Chapter 10: The Secret Dumbwaiter
The heavy mahogany desk offered only a momentary shield against the rising tide of Miller’s bootfalls. Each thud against the parquet flooring vibrated through the floorboards, reminding me of the precariousness of our position. Miller was my father’s pit bull—a man trained to protect the Vance family’s sprawling empire by any means necessary, completely indifferent to the human cost. He had reached the French doors by now, his flashlight beam slicing through the dust motes dancing in the moonlight, sweeping across the empty balcony and the velvet curtains.
"I know someone's in here," Miller muttered to himself, his voice a gravelly rasp that carried easily over the silent expanse of the library. "Come out before I have to make this difficult."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled Lily close to my chest, shielding her frail form with my arms as I guided her backward into the deep shadows where the library walls met the dark wood paneling. My hand found the concealed latch—a brass toggle disguised as a carved acanthus leaf on the baseboard. It was an old architectural feature, a service dumbwaiter once used by Victorian domestic staff to hoist firewood and heavy linens between the estate's sprawling floors without ever being seen by the masters of the house.
The mechanism clicked, releasing a rusted iron latch with a sound that felt deafeningly loud in the quiet room. Across the library, Miller’s boots pivoted sharply on the floor.
"Hey! What was that?" he shouted, his flashlight beam swinging wildly back toward our corner of the room.
Without waiting to see if he had spotted us, I shoved the panel open, revealing a cramped, soot-stained vertical shaft with a sagging hemp rope and a wooden freight tray. It smelled of old dust, cedar, and dry rot.
"In, sweet girl," I whispered, my voice tight with strain as I gently hoisted Lily onto the wooden platform. She didn't make a sound. Her wide, luminous eyes caught the moonlight, reflecting a calm determination that humbled me. She clutched her worn stuffed rabbit in one arm and the empty plastic EpiPen tube in the other like a talisman.
"I'm right behind you, Julian," she whispered softly, her small fingers gripping the edge of the tray.
I scrambled in after her, pulling my long legs into the cramped enclosure just as the bright beam of Miller’s tactical flashlight washed over the spot where we had been crouching. The panel clicked shut automatically behind us, plunging us into absolute, suffocating darkness.
Outside the wooden door, Miller’s heavy hand struck the paneling with a dull, bone-rattling thud. "Open up! Vance, I know you're in here!" His breath hitched against the wood, angry and impatient.
I reached blindly in the dark, my fingers finding the rusted iron brake lever that controlled the descent of the dumbwaiter. My muscles protested, aching from the lingering effects of the anaphylactic shock, but adrenaline surged through my veins, overriding the physical weakness. With a quiet, steady pull, I released the brake.
The wooden platform lurched downward, sinking into the dark belly of the mansion. The cable groaned overhead, a high-pitched metal shriek that seemed to echo through the empty service walls. Above us, Miller began hammering on the secret panel, his muffled curses fading into the background as the dumbwaiter carried us deeper into the subterranean foundations of the estate.
We dropped past the guest quarters, past the grand kitchens where the caterers had packed up hours ago, and down into the damp, stone-lined cellar levels that predated my father's garish modernization of the property. The air grew cooler, smelling of limestone, wet earth, and gasoline. This was the underground motor pool—a cavernous subterranean garage where my father kept his collection of vintage European sports cars, far away from the prying eyes of the staff and the media.
The platform came to a sudden, jarring halt with a dull thud against the concrete floor.
I pushed the lower service gate open, blinking against the harsh amber glow of the security lights overhead. The vast subterranean garage stretched out before us like a concrete tomb, lined with gleaming luxury vehicles that represented everything my father valued: status, untouchable wealth, and absolute control. But parked near the far exit bay, half-hidden beneath a dusty canvas tarp, was a vehicle that wasn't on display for board members—a faded dark-blue 1974 Chevrolet station wagon that my grandfather had left behind before the empire swallowed our family whole.
"Can we go home now, Daddy?" Lily asked softly, her voice barely a murmur as she climbed out of the shaft, holding her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
"We're going to make a new home, Lily," I promised, taking her small, cold hand in mine as we hurried across the oil-stained concrete toward the old wagon. "One where we don't have to hide anymore."
May you like
My fingers shook as I fished through the pocket of my tuxedo trousers, pulling out the heavy iron master key I had stolen from my father's desk drawer during my first escape attempt months ago. It was a long shot—the car hadn't been started in a decade—but as I slid the key into the heavy brass ignition and turned it, the engine sputtered, coughed once, and then roared to life with a deep, rumbling growl that shook the dust from the rafters.
The tailpipe filled the garage with a cloud of thick gray exhaust fumes as I threw the car into reverse. I didn't look back at the grand staircase, the sparkling chandeliers, or the gilded prison we were leaving behind. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator, and the old wagon surged forward, crashing through the reinforced wooden service gates of the subterranean garage and bursting out into the cool, pre-dawn light of the open highway.
