I go to the coffee table and look at the remotes. Too many.

One is Sony, which matches the game console. One is Samsung, which matches the TV. One is LG, which matches the Blu-ray sound system combo.

On the final remote, all the buttons but two appear to be fake. The two real ones are green and red. The green one features a picture of a key. The red one has a padlock logo. The brand is BHI.

I show it to Thistle.

She nods. ‘That’s Joseph Luxford’s security company. They install security systems.’

‘Including panic rooms,’ I say. ‘Right?’

I push the green button, and listen. Nothing. I walk around the ground floor, pushing it over and over, hoping to hear a beep.

‘Let’s check upstairs,’ Thistle says.

We go up the narrow staircase—narrow because the wall had to be expanded during the renovation, reinforced to take the weight of all the steel and concrete above. We run into Shannon’s bedroom and I push the button again.

This time I do hear a beep—but not from this room, from the storage room.

‘This way,’ I say. But something’s bothering me. If Luxford is in the panic room, shouldn’t the remote be in there with him? Maybe this one is a spare—but it seems like an obvious oversight.

Thistle has other concerns. ‘Why would he install his panic room in the bedroom he doesn’t use?’

‘Don’t know. Maybe the structure of the house couldn’t take it anywhere else.’

‘Then why not move his bed?’

We’ve reached the storage room. I open the wardrobe—the one Luxford keeps empty. The rear wall has automatically slid sideways, exposing a foot-wide gap.

Thistle raises her pistol. ‘Luxford! Come out with your hands up.’

There’s a second of silence.

Then the screaming starts.

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 28

A man is stabbed in the heart. No one tries to save him, and yet he doesn’t die. How?

I don’t wait for Thistle. She has the gun, but we don’t need it. The scream has told me exactly what we’re going to find in Shannon Luxford’s panic room. We’ve already wasted too much time. So I walk right in. As I pass through the doorway, I notice how thick the door is—there’s hardened steel behind the plaster, with huge automatic bolts.

Half of the space behind the closet is a standard panic room. Poured concrete walls, floor and ceiling. There’s a bank of small monitors, so the occupant can observe the rest of the house. All switched off, and probably useless, since I didn’t see any cameras downstairs. There’s a phone line, but no actual phone. Overhead, a narrow vent pumps recycled air around, droning like an idling truck. A hole in the wall next to the door probably used to be the emergency exit button.