I walked down the three steps by myself.
The basement looked smaller in daylight.
That surprised me most.
For months it had occupied an enormous place in my memory—a black concrete pit where my life had ended.
But standing there again, I saw dust on the shelves.
Old holiday boxes.
A broken lamp.
Nothing mystical.
Nothing powerful.
Just a room.
Barrett had locked me there because he wanted me to believe he controlled the door.
He had been wrong.
My hand went to the pocket of my jacket out of habit.
That tiny movement brought back the cold screen illuminating my face, the contact name I had not touched in two decades, and my father’s voice changing when I told him what had happened.
I climbed the steps.
Dominic was waiting at the top.
“Ready?” he asked.
I looked once more at the basement.
Then I closed the door gently.
I did not lock it.
“Yes,” I said.
And this time, when I walked out of that house, nobody stopped me.
