Page 125 of Something True


Font Size:

Frominsidethe cellar, the lock had just a regular twist mechanism, which meant that gettingoutof the cellar would be a lot easier than getting in.

No doubt, it was a safety measure, designed to prevent anyone from getting locked inside. But I still didn't know what this had to do with my aunt and uncle. Trying to make sense of it, I stepped back into the hall and said, "So what are you saying? They were hiding in the wine cellar?"

Bishop shook his head. "No. I'm saying they cameinthrough the wine cellar."

"But they couldn’t," I said. "It's just a cellar. It doesn'tgoanywhere."

He gave me a look. "You sure about that?"

I'd grown up in this house. Until the last few years, I'd been in that cellar plenty of times. There was no other exit.

My shoulders sagged in disappointment. So much for Bishop's theory. "Sorry," I said, "but I'm sure." Trying not to sound as deflated as I felt, I said, "But thanks for trying though."

Bishop made a scoffing sound. "And you say you're not cynical." He flicked his head toward the open cellar door. "You wanna go first?"

I moved forward, only to feel a hand on my elbow. It was Joel's hand, and I turned to give him a questioning look.

He smiled. "Sorry, but he was talking to me."

"But why you?" I asked. It was my cellar, after all.

"Because," Joel said, "if anyone comes in, they'll be facing me, not you."

The sentiment was so sweet and chivalrous that I couldn’t help but smile. Still, I had to point out the obvious. "But no one's coming in."

"We'll see." Joel moved toward the cellar door and flicked on the lights. "C'mon. Humor me."

So I did. With Joel in the lead and Bishop following behind us, we took the steps downward until they ended in a decidedly upscale cellar.

I glanced around. It looked the same as I remembered, with its ornate tile flooring, rows of recessed ceiling lights, several burgundy armchairs, and a natural color scheme that made it look more like a fashionable smoking room than anyone's basement.

Surrounding the small sitting area, I spotted the familiar rows of big, wooden racks. Most of the racks were packed with bottles of wine, nestled into individual wooden cubbies. In passing, I had to wonder, how much was all of this worth?

No doubt, it hadsomevalue. But it couldn’t be a fortune. After all, most of the bottles had come from a winery just a few counties away.

Still, it did look impressive. That had to count for something, right?

Bishop said. "You see it?"

"See what?" I asked.

It was Joel who answered. "That." I looked to see him pointing at something on the far wall. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing out of the ordinary – just a regular wine rack, even if itwasempty.

I gave him a confused look. "That's always been empty." I knew this for a fact, because when I'd been younger, I'd stored countless things in those empty wooden cubbies – dolls, markers, bananas.

"Forget the rack," Bishop said. "Look at the floor."

I moved forward to get a closer look. And then, I spotted them, faint footprints on the tile floor, like someone had recently come through with damp or dusty shoes.

I felt my eyebrows furrow. The footprints seemed to pass straight through the wine rack, as if it weren't even there. But that didn't make any sense. The rack was positioned against an external wall. There was nothing behind it, well, except for earth, anyway.

I turned and gave Bishop a questioning look.

"Step back," he said.

When I did, he moved forward and reached above the rack. Something clicked, and the whole rack swung inward, leaving us staring at a dark, mostly empty space. Squinting through the shadows, I saw cinder-block walls and a cylinder-shaped tank in the far corner.

I was utterly confused, until I heard it – the low sound of waves, lapping against an unseen shore. And then, I understood. I was looking at the inside of the old pump-house, which was located just down the bluff from my home.