The staircase was narrow and led down a single flight to a dim room lined with shelves and bottles. Red clips held the bottles in. A nod to earthquake security, I supposed, but they looked like claws. A wall of claws. Each set gripped a cylinder of dark liquid.

Most L.A. homes I knew did not have basements, and the dense, close atmosphere felt foreign, oppressive. The air tasted gritty, like it had been carved out of a packed, ancient mud. The light shining behind me ended in lakes of shadow. The room had two doors. In the dimness their outlines blurred. Neither appeared to lead outside. Instead they seemed like entrances to somewhere deeper.

Upstairs, a chair scraped across the floor, and there was an explosion of voices. Then I heard footsteps. The door to the upstairs shut, casting the wine cellar into darkness. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of me.

I hadn’t turned on the cellar light. The switch must have been at the top of the stairs. I could climb back up the steps and flip it on, but the voices above had gone silent. As if they were waiting. The darkness pounded around me. I wanted away from this house. I walked forward and felt for the doors, my fingers touching cool glass oblongs, then the rough gloss of varnished wood. Voices erupted again.

My fingers traveled down the wood, knocked something metal. I almost cried out when I realized it was a doorknob. I groped for a grip, twisted it. It did not give. Locked. What was it hiding?

Upstairs, they were talking loudly. Arguing. Footsteps back and forth. A bottle touched my cheek as I felt around for the other door. I shrank back, losing my bearings in the darkness. The next step was a stumble into the wall of hooks and glass, and then I found the other flat opening.

This knob turned. I pushed the door and stumbled through.

The corridor beyond stretched for ten feet, ending with a wall and another threshold leading off it. Evening light purpled the air. I strode down it, trying not to make a sound, palm flat on the smooth cement. A shadow on the far wall twitched. I froze. It wavered again, then I heard a groaning sigh. I crept forward and peered around the edge of the turn. It was a hatch to the night outside, filled with faint cigarette smoke and Pearson, his broad back toward me.

I braced my shoulders and stalked toward him.

“I heard you were smoking,” I said calmly before I emerged.

Pearson tilted his head at me and blew out a puff. “I am,” he said, sounding surprised. “Are they getting anxious for wine?”

I shrugged. “I’m anxious for a smoke,” I said.

“No doubt,” he said, and tilted his pack at me.

“But the rest of them are definitely anxious for wine,” I said, taking one.