Page 165 of Hunting Pretty

I made a mental note to pay anonymously for the door to be fixed.

The house was large and decorated expensively as I raced through the ground floor. Low glass tables in the living room, delicate statues on narrow pedestals in the hallway. A large marble kitchen that barely looked used.

It didn’t scream family friendly.

The stairs were black marble with a wrought-iron railing. I climbed them two at a time, calling out for Ava.

Upstairs, I encountered a long hallway of closed doors.

The floors were spotless: no sneaker scuff marks, no toys lying around, no laundry baskets, no fingerpaintings tacked to the walls or framed family photos.

Where was his wife? His kids?

I tested the first door. It opened to a master bedroom assterile as an operating room, the bed tightly made with pale-gray linen.

Rifling through the closet, I saw no evidence of a woman’s clothes. I exhaled irritably through my nose.

Maybe the wife had moved out. Taken the kids. But why would Dr. Vale keep up the ruse?

Down the hallway I continued, growing less and less cautious about the noise I was making.

I found a spare bedroom with nothing hanging in the closet, a library of weighty classics, a gym with one mat and a rack of dumbbells, and a study with a dozen gin bottles clustered on a low brass bar cart.

But no sign of a family.

And more importantly, no sign of Ava.

I raced downstairs, calling Ava’s phone again. No fucking answer.

If she wasn’t here, then where was she?

I spotted the only door left that I hadn’t checked. I tapped it with my knuckle and frowned at the solid feeling. The door was made of solid metal.

I tested the handle.

It was locked.

A chill went through me. What did Dr. Vale keep in this room that he needed a solid metal door. Was Ava in there?

I pulled out a small set of lockpicks and worked the lock, my fingers trembling with frustration. I took longer than I should have.

Finally, the lock gave way under my fingers.

I pulled out a sharp blade, letting the weight of it in my palm soothe me, before I turned the handle and slowly pulled open the door.

Perhaps if I had mentally calculated the layout of the ground floor rooms, I’d have realized there wasn’t enough space for another room.

It wasn’t a room.

Instead, there were stairs leading down to a basement of some sort.

Cold air drifted up and there was a musty smell. But no sound. No voices, no sobbing, no muffled screams.

I got the distinct feeling that this basement was soundproof.

I made sure the basement door didn’t lock from the inside before I closed it behind me.

Despite the shiver that racked my spine, I made my way down the stairs, placing my feet carefully on each dusty concrete step.

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