In 1944 Virginia, a Whistleblower Wife Locked in a Cold War Cellar by Her Ex-Husband to Steal $250,000 Defense Contracts Fights for Justice Through Supernatural Clues and Her Son's Intervention
Gideon’s footsteps, heavy and agitated, moved quickly towards the cellar door. I could hear Marshal Vance right behind him, his pace measured and firm. I gripped the cold stone wall, my muscles tense. They were coming.
The faint click of the lock, then the groan of the heavy oak door swinging inward. Light from the hall spilled briefly into the top of the cellar stairwell, then Gideon’s frantic voice cut through the air.
“Marshal, wait! There’s… there’s a problem with the furnace! I just remembered. It’s unsafe. I should go down first, assess the situation.” His voice was laced with a desperate urgency that was almost comical. He was trying to get ahead of Vance, to destroy whatever evidence he could.
Marshal Vance’s reply was sharp. “There’s no need, Mr. Garber. I’m capable of inspecting a furnace. Step aside.”
“No! Please!” Gideon practically whined. “There are some… sensitive papers down there. Old audit records. If you come now, they’ll just get damaged.”
This was it. My ultimate play. I needed Gideon in here, alone.
With a surge of strength, I brought the iron rod down on the furnace pipe, not a quiet tap this time, but a loud, jarring *CLANG*. It echoed through the cellar and up the stairwell.
“What was that?” Vance demanded.
“It’s the furnace! It’s cracking!” Gideon shouted, his voice laced with manufactured panic. “My ledger! It’s in the coal bunker, I have to burn it before it becomes evidence of… of structural damage!” He clearly hadn’t thought that through, but his panic was blinding.
I heard the sound of Gideon shoving past Vance, his feet thudding heavily down the wooden steps, desperate to reach the coal bunker at the far end of the cellar. He thought I was still locked in the tiny space near the pipe, out of sight. He needed to get to that ledger, the core of his embezzlement, and destroy it.
The beam of Gideon’s small, brass matchbox flashlight bobbed wildly as he hurried across the cellar floor, his breathing ragged. I pressed myself into the shadows near the old wine racks, keeping utterly silent. He didn’t see me. He was focused only on the bunker door.
He fumbled with the old latch on the coal bunker door, pulling it open. The smell of stale coal dust, thicker here, drifted out. He stepped inside, his flashlight beam illuminating a stack of papers, his precious ledger, nestled among the coal.
“Gideon! What do you think you’re doing?” Marshal Vance’s voice bellowed from the stairwell.
But Gideon was already inside. He thought he was alone, that he had a few precious seconds. He was wrong.
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