The next morning, Clara sat in the passenger seat of Hensley’s car, her notebook open on her lap. They were heading toward the Blackthorn Estate, now nothing more than a charred skeleton of its former self. Clara’s research into the financial records had confirmed her suspicion: the underground construction permit wasn’t for renovations or a wine cellar. It was something far more secure, and far more dangerous.


    “Do you think it’s still intact?” Clara asked, glancing at Hensley.


    “If the fire didn’t touch it, maybe,” Hensley replied, keeping his eyes on the road. “But if someone wanted it destroyed, they would’ve made sure it was buried.”


    The Blackthorn Estate loomed ahead, its skeletal remains framed by overgrown grass and rusting gates. Clara felt a chill run down her spine as they parked and stepped out, the air heavy with the scent of ash and damp earth.


    “The permits mentioned access points near the east wing,” Clara said, consulting her notes. “We should start there.”


    Navigating the ruins was treacherous, the ground uneven and littered with debris. Clara’s heart pounded as they approached the east wing, her flashlight cutting through the dim shadows. Hensley moved ahead, his movements cautious but purposeful.


    “Over here,” he called, pointing to a partially collapsed stairwell. Beneath it, a steel door lay buried under rubble. The faint outline of a keypad was visible, its surface charred but still intact.


    “This must be it,” Clara whispered, her pulse quickening.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Hensley knelt beside the door, inspecting the keypad. “It’s fried, but the mechanism might still work if we can clear the debris.”


    Together, they worked to remove the rubble, their hands scraping against rough stone and twisted metal. After what felt like an eternity, the door was fully exposed. Hensley grabbed a crowbar from his bag and wedged it into the frame, grunting with effort as he forced the door open.


    The air that escaped was stale and cold, carrying a faint metallic tang. Clara’s flashlight beam illuminated a narrow staircase leading downward, the steps slick with moisture.


    “Looks like it’s still intact,” Hensley muttered, his voice echoing slightly.


    Clara swallowed hard and followed him down, her heart hammering in her chest. The staircase opened into a cavernous room, the walls lined with reinforced steel. In the center stood a vault, its imposing structure gleaming despite the years of neglect.


    “What the hell were they keeping down here?” Clara breathed, stepping closer.


    Hensley examined the vault, his brow furrowed. “If Wexler built this, it wasn’t for anything ordinary.”


    Clara’s flashlight swept over the room, landing on a desk cluttered with old documents. She moved toward it, her fingers brushing over the brittle pages. One document caught her eye: a blueprint of the vault, annotated with Wexler’s notes.


    “Primary storage for classified materials. Security overrides integrated.”


    Beside it lay a ledger, the entries written in the same looping handwriting as Lila’s journal. Clara’s breath caught as she read the final entry:


    “If you’ve found this, you’re too late. The truth is buried deeper than you can dig.”


    “Clara, over here,” Hensley called, pulling her attention to the far wall. Embedded in the steel was a symbol—a circle with an arrow piercing through it—the same symbol she’d seen in Lila’s journal.


    The room felt colder, the weight of the secrets pressing down on them. Clara’s resolve hardened. Whatever the Blackthorns had hidden, she was determined to uncover it—no matter the cost.