Those are the sorts of headlines and sound bites we’re hearing with more on the way, and it’s all a lie. It’s all utter bullshit. The FBI didn’t trap Carrie Grethen. Troy Rosado isn’t a mass killer. He didn’t murder FBI agents or police. He’s also not responsible for what happened in the cellar, not for any of it. He was nothing more than a victim. But the FBI can’t resist spin doctoring. They might just have invented data fiction and are about to be done in by it.

“I don’t know.” Benton moves bottles around, checking labels. “I’m torn. Maybe I shouldn’t drink anything. Tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day after that damn story breaks.”

It includes photographs of the tunnel, which dates back to the late 1600s when hundreds of acres were settled by a wealthy Englishman named Alexander Irons. Married with eight children and many servants, he had much to protect. Extant original property records indicate he kept secret cellars full of food, gunpowder and weapons, and a fortune in silver, gold and furs. There were rumors in his day that he might have been involved in privateering, a polite word for piracy.

We know for a fact he had subbasement cow stalls, which look like an ice cube tray of windowless cells with stone sides and dirt floors. They’re below the house about halfway between Carrie Grethen’s torture chamber and the hedge in back where I noticed loose bricks and stones.

“What I’d love is a martini but I’m afraid that will do me in for the night.” Steam clouds up as I empty a pot of boiling water and pasta into a strainer in the sink.

“Booze booze everywhere and not a drop to drink.” Bottles clink as Benton looks through a cabinet of single malt whiskeys and small batch bourbons. “I don’t know. What goes with prosciutto di Parma and mortadella?”

“Everything. But there’s a sparkling Malvasia if you’d like.” I shake the strainer over the sink, draining all of the water out. “That’s good with the antipasto. Or there should be a Freisa d’Asti.” I pour the steaming tagliatelle into two big bowls. “Something light and fresh would be nice.”

“Not for me.” More bottles clink. “I think I need something strong.”

“Nothing heavy, ponderous and peaty.” I tear up basil leaves and their fresh bright scent makes me happy until I remember why I shouldn’t be. “I’m in the mood for something easy.”