Too tight.
Too coordinated.
I paused at the end of the south hallway.
A double-wide door stood flush against the wall paneling.
No handle.
No visible lock.
No visible hinge.
But the outline was there — faint seam lines where engineered wood concealed reinforced steel underneath.
Only someone trained to recognize architectural anomalies would see it.
A panic room.
Or worse.
During FBI tactical training, instructors had shown us identical structures.
Disguised vaults.
Safe rooms.
Underground command centers.
Places where criminals hid when chaos erupted.
Places where real decisions were made.
My pulse accelerated.
This wasn’t in the public blueprint of the house.
Meaning it was private. Meaning it was important.
I stepped closer and pressed my ear against the cool wood.
I listened.
Silence.
No mechanical hum from ventilation.
No muffled conversation. No footsteps.
It could mean one of two things:
Either it wasn’t active —
Or it was soundproofed beyond detection.
Two months.
That was the Bureau’s deadline.
