Halverson answered, closer now. "Find her."
Boots crossed the kitchen. A drawer yanked open. Another. Someone rummaged through her things fast and confident.
Martha pressed the phone to her ear, whispering through clenched teeth. "Dean, they're searching."
Dean's voice was a growl through the weak signal. "I'm on my way, Martha. I'm breaking curfew. I don't care."
A heavy thud sounded at the bulkhead above her, someone stepping onto it. The warped door shifted. Martha's breath stopped.
Another thud, heavier. The bulkhead handle jiggled.
Halverson's voice, right above her now, carried down the stairwell like a blade. "Mrs. Caldwell, I know you're down there."
The bulkhead started to lift. It lifted with a wet groan, and cold air spilled down the basement stairs like a warning.
Martha stayed frozen behind the shelves, knees bent, tote pressed to her chest so tight her arms trembled. A flashlight beam cut into the darkness.
Sheriff Halverson came down first, careful on the slick steps, one hand on the railing like he owned the place. Deputy Rusk followed, phone up even down here, its tiny screen glowing as it filmed nothing but blackness and fear.
"Mrs. Caldwell," Halverson called again, voice calm and close now. "This isn't a game."
Martha didn't answer. She forced her breathing through her nose, slow, quiet, counting in her head like Dean had told Caleb to do. Ten in, ten out.
The flashlight beam swept across the shelves, canned beans, jars, old blankets, then snapped to the folding table where her tin box had been minutes ago.
It wasn't there anymore. It was in her tote.
Halverson noticed the empty spot anyway. His eyes narrowed and his calm turned sharper.
"She grabbed her documents," he said, not to Martha, into the air for Rusk, for the record.
Rusk's phone angled lower, tracking the shelves like a predator tracking movement in grass. Martha pressed her own phone to her ear, whispering, "Dean, they're in the basement."
Dean's voice came through thin and tight. "Stay still. Don't speak to them. Keep your phone on."
Halverson stepped deeper, boots scuffing concrete. He wasn't looking for Martha first. He was looking for proof, for the papers that could ruin their story.
"You see a tote?" Halverson asked.
Rusk's flashlight beam joined his, two hard cones slicing across the darkness. "No, Sheriff."
Halverson exhaled through his nose like he was annoyed by the inconvenience of her resisting. "Check under the table. Check behind the shelves. She's down here. She always goes down here."
Rusk moved along the wall, the phone still up, filming his own flashlight in the shelves as he searched. It was ridiculous and terrifying at the same time, like watching a man record a robbery while pretending it was a rescue.
Upstairs, through the floorboards, a muffled voice carried down. Gordon Pell.
"Sheriff, she's not in the kitchen. The back window's open."
Halverson didn't look up. "She's in the basement."
Pell's voice came again, too smooth, too patient. "We don't have all night. Curfew's going to bring attention."