Someone had been living in here.

Or being kept in here.

And in the center of the concrete floor, half covered by a rubber mat that had been dragged aside and not replaced, was a hatch — a door, set into the floor, with a heavy sliding bolt.

Behind me Brigitte had gone silent.

I looked at the hatch, and I looked at my sister, and I said, “What is under the floor, Brigitte?” She started to cry, which I had not seen her do since we were children.

“You were never supposed to come back,” she whispered.