Every sensible thought in my head told me to close the hatch, call the police, and leave.
Then I looked at the note again.
I had spent the last day trying to convince myself there had to be another explanation.
That someone had copied Owen’s handwriting.
That it was an elaborate prank.
Standing at the edge of that open hatch, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.
It was his.
I switched on the flashlight on my phone and started down.
The staircase ended in a concrete room about the size of our garage.
A weak yellow light blinked on overhead, apparently triggered by a motion sensor.
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