His mother wasn’t kidding about the tight timeline. The display read six seconds—and counting. He pressed the pound sign, followed by the four-digit code she had provided in the phone message he had accessed by speed-dialing “Mom” on the satellite phone. She’d briefly walked him through the entire apartment process in that message. With the alarm system deactivated and Berg inside, Devin shut the door and threw the dead bolt. The door was solid enough, but not what he had expected from a security standpoint.

A quick look around explained why. The space contained nothing but a small wooden table and two mismatched kitchen chairs. This meant one thing. Whatever lay behind the next door would be epic. The question was, In what way? Epically critical to national security as she claimed or epically fucking crazy—and there was only one way to find out.

“I’m guessing she didn’t spend much time in this room,” said Berg.

“Probably a safe bet,” said Devin before wandering into the kitchen. “Take a look at this.”

Berg followed him to a hallway off the kitchen, which turned out to be more of a vestibule. A sturdy-looking door stood at the end of the stunted corridor, featuring a dead bolt, a regular keyless doorknob, and a touch pad embedded in the wall next to the doorframe.

“That looks promising,” said Berg.

Devin pulled the satellite phone from one of the duffel bag’s outer pockets and checked the last number he’d dialed. Exhausted from ten sleepless nights, he didn’t trust his memory at this point. He’d inputted the eight-digit code and pressed send so it would appear in his recent calls for easy retrieval.

Devin tapped the screen, activating the digital touch pad. He entered the code and pressed the green SUBMIT icon. A mechanical whirring in the wall behind the touch pad started a moment later, followed by a solid thunk closer to the door. Some kind of power-driven locking mechanism. No wonder she hadn’t invested much in the front door. The screen read OPEN DEAD BOLT, so he took the next step toward the big reveal and dug the keys out of his pocket.

A full minute later—the door wide open—Devin remained in the doorway, still trying to process what he was seeing. Mostly, he was afraid to step inside and get sucked into whatever had so entirely consumed his mother. Helen Gray had renovated the place, spending her available funds on her obsession, instead of the public-facing neighborhood gentrification effort.

All the interior walls had been removed and replaced by a dispersed pattern of cylindrical metal supports, initially giving the space an open feel. The complete absence of windows closed it right back up. If he’d blacked out and woken up in this room, he’d guess it was a basement.