Page 103 of Love on the Line

Chapter 36

Since Paul had uncoveredthe deadly fire articles, it had been an agonizing week of waiting for the opportunity to snoop around the antique shop. His blood still simmered. He’d been following the money trail and knew a portrait and lamp were shipping out tomorrow. They must be stashed somewhere on the premises. Devon had mentioned a dinner meeting, so Paul should have the place to himself.

When he entered the building, the grandma’s-attic, musty scent of mothballs and old, wooden furniture filled his nostrils. He glanced around, but nothing unusual stood out. Stacked paintings rested against the wall, and antiques adorned tables.

Not sure what he was even looking for, he circled the room, stopping in the middle. He pinched his chin and sized up the area. All open with no closets or attic meant nowhere to hide anything. His gaze dropped to the floor. But what about beneath?

Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, he clicked the button and ran the light along the hardwood floor. No deep cracks, no hinges, no signs of an opening. His heart sank.

Wait, something wasn’t right. The boards next to a carpet bearing a heavy armoire were darker than the others, not faded. Maybe the rug usually covered them.

Dropping to his knees, he shined the light under the wardrobe. His stomach jumped. Tiny wheels beneath the legs made it mobile. He pushed the armoire to the edge of the carpet.

His pulse quickened as he rolled up the carpet, revealing a trap door with a recessed handle. Bingo. He grabbed the ring, pulled hard, and the door swung open. Darkness swallowed the descending stairs, and the humming of a machine rose from below.

He beamed his light into the black hole, but the ray only illuminated the steps. Taking a shaky breath, he placed a foot on the first tread and bounced up and down to test the strength of the wood. Seemed solid enough and appeared to be newer than the flooring of the antique shop. Maybe Devon had built the downstairs after he’d purchased the store. This had to be where he kept his exports.

The back of Paul’s throat itched, and the flashlight shook in his hand as he slowly descended. When he reached the bottom, he shined the light around the room and located a wall switch. With no windows, he didn’t have to worry about people seeing him. He flipped the toggle and the room lit up.

Squinting, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the flickering of fluorescent lights. A metal heater or air conditioning unit buzzed in the background. Piles of various sized boxes, tape, and shipping materials lined the perimeter. A large taped box stamped “fragile” leaned against a wall. Had to be the portrait.

He whipped his phone out and took pictures, documenting the room’s contents.

A small table in the corner with gleaming gold drawer handles caught his eye. He crossed the room and stepped onto the thick, black velvet carpet mat in front of it. Nothing weird about that.

A silver candelabra on top held five half-burned tapers. He ran a finger across the smooth, dark wood of the stand. Not a speck of dust. Devon kept the surface polished. An eerie feeling creeped up Paul’s backbone. The table, the carpet, the candles—this looked like some sort of shrine.

He opened the cabinet doors and pulled out a crudely made wooden box. Hardened glue gummed up the sides and bound the uneven edges together. “Mom” was scrolled on the top in child-like writing. Paul rotated the box to check the back, which bore the initials “DB.” Devon must have made the case for his mother. Hard to imagine he’d ever crafted anything less than perfect.

With trembling fingers, Paul slid the lid off to reveal a yellowed newspaper article about the house fire. He sucked in a breath. Devon had highlighted the line about his brother dying in the fire, trapped in his room. Sick son of a bitch.

Paul set the clipping aside and extracted a ribbon-tied, rolled-up parchment. He slid the band off and unrolled the paper. Devon’s college diploma. Odd place to keep it.

Two pieces of gold jewelry winked under the light. Paul picked up a smaller college ring that matched his own. A sick, twisted thought wrapped its arms around his lungs. Oh God, no. Lynn’s?

Sweat soaked his shirt despite the chilled room. He adjusted his glasses and read the inscription with Lynn’s name and their graduation year.

All the blood drained from his head, and the room spun. He tried to catch his breath, fisting his hand over the ring in his palm. The metal cut into his skin, and hot rage ravaged his body.

He had proof now. Devon had killed Lynn. That sick bastard was going to pay. What did he do, light candles at his psycho shrine and relive the event?

Paul shook his head as a wave of nausea rose from his gut. Focus. He might have already compromised any fingerprints on the ring by touching it. Dumb mistake.

He took a picture of the other piece of jewelry in the box. A gold-studded earring. Maybe a trophy from some other woman Devon had killed. How had he ever thought this man to be a friend? Paul’s body shook, and he dabbed the sweat from his brow. He’d call the police. Turn himself in for the tax fraud and send Devon to rot in jail.

A scraping sound came from above as the front door opened.

Paul froze. Panic welled inside, immobilizing him. Devon should still be at dinner, but maybe his plans had changed. He might be coming back to the store to get the shipment ready for tomorrow.

With the trap door wide open and no weapon, Paul was screwed. Caught with the evidence, he’d be killed like the others. He dialed nine-one-one, shoved the wooden box back into the cabinet, and grabbed the candelabra.

No matter what, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

---