There is a ladder heading down into a gray abyss.

“The sewer?” I ask.

“What did you expect? Something fancier?”

“Kind of.”

He laughs, then steps down into the hole. I climb down after him.

He tells me to make sure I close the grate.

I do, but only partially.

Just in case.

I climb down ten feet, then jump to the concrete below. The sewer is softly lit and surprisingly clean.

“This is an old sewer duct,” he explains. “They did a big reconstruction project in the late sixties, and this quarter-mile section was decommissioned.”

“So that’s why you bought the OPIC building in 1973. Its location over an abandoned sewer duct.”

“Precisely.”

“So the maintenance crews can’t get here?”

“No, it’s sealed off on both ends. Above is the only entrance.”

“And you had it cleaned?”

“Yes, of course. We aren’t animals. Though, as you may notice, there is a still a lingering aroma.”

It’s there. More musky than rotten.

He ambles forward for a hundred yards, then stops at a door. He punches in a code and pushes through.

I follow him, then trip through the entrance.

“Be careful,” he says.

I slide the flashlight in the door entrance, then push myself up, hoping Ewen doesn’t notice the door failing to close completely.

He doesn’t.

The corridor ends, and we push through a metal door and into what appears to be a wide laboratory. It is filled with computers, gadgets, terminals, and medical equipment. I know most of the machines by sight — MRI, CT, EKG — since I’d been hooked to, or inside, every one of them at some point in my youth.

In another corner there is a small fridge and a cot, no doubt where Ewen was staying since I last saw him — patiently waiting for me to trip the alarm.

There is a long clear window against the far wall. Through the window, it is all white.

The White Room.

I let out a long exhale.

I found it.

I turn around.

Ewen is sitting in a chair behind a desk.

I stare at him, then say, “You said the last time you talked to my mom was shortly after 9/11?” I pause. “That’s not true.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

I take another deep breath. “Did you know about her and David Sullivan?”

“I did.”

“And did you know my mother killed Jennifer Nubers?”

He smirks.

He did.

“Tell me,” I say.

“Shortly after 9/11 — shortly after David Sullivan’s death — Elena did contact me. She wanted to know if David sent me anything. Something she called Project Sandman.”

I smile.

I knew it.

“It had been years since I spoke to David, not since he escaped from the Russian prisoner camp, and I told her that he hadn’t sent me anything. A week after that, I received something in the mail.”

“A flash drive,” I said.

He nods.