The logbook was a masterclass in brevity. The entries were functional, recorded in a steady, unemotional script. They listed dates, weather conditions, and initials—mostly M.V. for Mark. Every few days, there was a single word: clear or checked. As she flipped back through the decades, the handwriting changed, becoming more flourished and archaic.
These earlier entries must’ve belonged to Mark’s father. They dated back to 1947, shortly after the war ended. One entry in particular stopped her breath. It was dated October 14th, written in heavy ink: Access secured. It was followed by a series of coordinates that matched the maps in the desk drawer.
The cross-section drawing now made terrifying sense. The space inside the cabinet, she had found earlier, was not just a gap under the house; it was a disguised entry point. The horizontal line was not a flaw in the sketch; it was a deliberate engineering project. Mark and his father had not just been living in a house; they had been guarding a door. Clara looked at the floorboards, suddenly aware of the hollow space below.