I’m about to make my exit, when I notice an irregularity on the pen floor. Thrusting my flashlight through the pipe rail, I train the beam on what looks like a sheet of plywood that’s partially covered with wood shavings and straw.

Curious, I slide the pin aside. Steel creaks as I open the gate and step into the pen. I’m midway to the object when my boot thuds hollowly against the floor. Kneeling, I brush away the shavings—and realize I’m standing on a sheet of plywood.

It’s about four by six feet and three quarters of an inch thick. Kneeling, I slide my fingers beneath the edge. Dust flies as I lift. It’s heavy and requires a good bit of effort. But I muscle it aside. I almost can’t believe my eyes when I realize I’ve uncovered some kind of stairway or pit.

“What the hell?”

Ancient brick steps lead down to a dirt floor and a narrow passage. The walls are constructed of wood beams and crumbling brick. At first glance, I think I’ve stumbled upon a storm shelter or old root cellar. But as my beam reveals details, I realize this is neither. It’s some kind of tunnel.

Questions hammer my brain. Why in God’s name is there a tunnel beneath the Masts’ barn? Where does it go? Who uses it? And for what?

A glance at my watch tells me it’s only been ten minutes since I called 911. That means a deputy won’t arrive for another ten. Pulling my phone from my belt, I punch the speed-dial button for Tomasetti. One ring. Two. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to answer. I tell myself I don’t want him to worry. But the truth of the matter is, I know he’ll try to convince me not to go down there—and I know that would be a pretty good piece of advice.

He answers on the fourth ring with a nasty growl of his name.

“The Masts are involved.” Quickly, I tell him about the car and the scrap of fabric. “She was wearing that tank top the day of the fight.”

“Where are you?”

It’s difficult to hear him above the din of rain against the roof. “I’m at the Mast farm.”

“Is someone from the sheriff’s office there?”

“He’s en route.”

“Are you alone?”

I start to hedge, but he cuts me off. “Goddamn it, Kate—”

“Tomasetti, there’s some kind of underground tunnel beneath the slaughter shed. It’s the perfect place to hide someone.”

“What’s the ETA on that deputy?” The tone of his voice changes, and I visualize him grabbing his jacket and keys as he rushes toward the door.

“Ten minutes.”