I hear the pop of a gunshot, spin toward the hatch behind me, see a chunk of wood fly. Mast is shooting his way through. I end the call, clip the phone to my belt, and take the stairs two at a time to the top. I have no idea if Irene Mast is waiting for me on the other side with a rifle. The one thing I do know is that if I want to live, I have to get the hell out of here.

I open the door a crack. I see a hallway with plank floors, a homemade rug. To my right is a small living area. Looking to my left, I can see the linoleum floor of the kitchen. If I can get through the kitchen and out the back door, I’ll be able to take cover until backup arrives.

I listen for sirens. For Perry Mast pounding up the basement stairs. All I hear is the hard thrum of my heart and my survival instinct screaming Run!

Easing open the door, I step into the hall. Another layer of relief goes through me when I spot the skeleton key sticking out. Closing the door behind me, I twist the key. I know the lock is no match for a rifle, but it’s one more barrier between me and Perry Mast. It might buy me some time.

My boots are silent against the floor as I start toward the kitchen. The smell of cooking tomatoes hangs in the air. Pots rattle on the stovetop, and I realize Irene is in there, canning vegetables, a chore my own mamm did a hundred times when I was growing up.

I stop short of the doorway and peer into the kitchen. Irene Mast stands at the stove, her back to me. The faucet is running. She’s holding a towel in her left hand, has another slung over her shoulder. She’s lowering a rack of mason jars into a large steaming pot.

The sight is so utterly benign that I can barely reconcile it with the scene that just transpired in the tunnel. I stand frozen in place, wondering if she knows about the missing girls. Has she been kept in the dark? Has she turned a blind eye because she can’t handle the truth? Or is she part of it?

She’s so intent on her chore that she doesn’t hear me enter. I’ve gone only a couple of steps when it strikes me that if the deputy had indeed arrived, she wouldn’t be in here canning tomatoes. She’d be outside, answering some disturbing questions about missing girls and how her husband spends his spare time.