She turned her head toward the kitchen window, peering out into the yard. The barn's ruined roof, the mud, the taped-off live line farther down the road, no neighbors, no witnesses close enough to see.
This was what Evelyn meant. Private. Controlled.
Martha's eyes landed on the small basement bulkhead in the side yard, half bent, one hinge torn, but still there. An opening, if she could reach it without being seen.
She moved quietly to the pantry, grabbed her heavy raincoat and threw it on. The tote strap cut into her shoulder.
Pell's voice came through the back door again, patient. "Martha, I'm going to count to five, then I need you to open the door, okay?"
Martha whispered into the phone. "I'm going to the basement exit."
Dean answered instantly. "Good. Move. Keep the line open."
Martha crouched, eased the kitchen window up just enough, and felt cold damp air rush in. She slid the tote through first, then climbed, careful not to slam the frame.
Her knees protested, but she ignored them. She landed in wet grass behind the house, hidden from the porch by the corner of the building.
From the front, another crack, sharp, definitive. The sound of forced entry finally winning.
Martha's pulse spiked so hard, she tasted metal. She moved fast along the side of the house, staying low, raincoat dark against the gray yard.
She reached the bulkhead, grabbed the warped handle, and pulled. It opened with a squeal that sounded loud enough to summon the whole county.
Martha froze, listening. From the front of the house came Halverson's voice, muffled, but close.
"Mrs. Caldwell, where are you?"
Boots thudded inside her living room. Rusk's voice followed, louder, as if he wanted the camera to catch it.
"Ma'am, come out where we can see you."
Martha swallowed hard and slipped into the bulkhead, descending the slick steps into her basement like she was returning to the only place that had ever truly protected her.
She pulled the door down above her, leaving it not fully latched, just enough to hide.
The basement smelled the same. Earth, canned food, damp concrete. She could hear the house above her like it was a separate world.
Footsteps. Voices. Wood creaking.
Her phone crackled. Dean was still there, breathing hard.
"Martha," he said, "talk to me."
"I'm in the basement," Martha whispered. "They're inside my house."
"Stay hidden," Dean said. "Do not confront them."
Martha crouched behind the shelves, clutching the tote to her chest. She forced herself to keep breathing, to keep quiet.
Above, the footsteps moved deeper into the house, into her hallway, toward her kitchen. A shadow passed over the basement stairwell light crack, then the back door handle rattled.
Pell's voice drifted down, muffled through floorboards. "Sheriff, she's not here. She must have gone out the back."