“That's...” I searched for the right word. “Terrifying, actually. And impressive.”
His mouth curved without humour. “Stay close. And keep your voice down. Sound carries weird down here.”
We descended deeper. The air grew colder and I could feel the weight of the building pressing down.
Cal navigated it without hesitation, one hand trailing along the wall, the other holding his phone's dim light.
“Here.” He stopped at a door that looked like all the others. Unmarked. Rusted hinges. Handle that probably hadn't been turned in years.
It opened smoothly.
Inside was a room that smelled like mildew and fear. Filing cabinets lined three walls. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, providing just enough light to see by. And standing in the corner, looking ready to bolt, was a man I didn't recognise.
“You're late,” he said. Voice shaking.
“We're here now.” Cal moved into the room slowly. Non-threatening. “This is Dom. He's with me.”
“You said you'd come alone.”
“Plans change. He's trustworthy.” Cal kept his distance. Gave the man space. “You have something for us?”
The man's hands were shaking. “I shouldn't be here. If they find out I talked to you?—”
“They won't.” Cal's voice went softer. Reassuring. “We're careful. No one followed us. No one knows about this meeting except the three of us.”
“You don't understand. Harrow—he knows things. He always knows.” The man pulled out a flask, took a drink with desperate speed. “He knew about the evidence before we sealed it. Knew which files to bury. Knew which people to pay off.”
“Who told him?” I asked.
The man's eyes snapped to me. “You're Rourke. The sister.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry. What happened to her—it wasn't right. But I couldn't stop it. None of us could. The orders came from too high up.”
“Who gave the orders?” Cal's voice stayed patient. But I heard the tension underneath. The careful control that meant he was close to something important.
“I don't know names. Just instructions. 'Seal this file. Lose that document. Make sure this witness statement disappears.'” The man took another drink. “But there was one thing. One detail that didn't fit the pattern.”
“What detail?”
The man flinched. “The autopsy. Dr Quinn flagged something. Said there were inconsistencies. Said the angle of injury didn't match the official story. She put it in her notes. But then the notes got edited. Changed. Made to match what Harrow needed them to say.”
“What was the inconsistency?” Cal's voice had gone deadly quiet.
“Your sister—” He looked at me. “She wasn't alone when she died. Someone else was there. Someone who cleaned up afterward.”
“Who?” My voice came out rough. Raw. “Who was with her?”
“I don't know. But Harrow knew. And he protected them.” The man's hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the flask. “That's all I can tell you. That's all I know. Now I need to leave before?—”
The explosion cut him off.
Not close—maybe fifty metres down the tunnel—but loud enough that the sound ricocheted off brick walls like thunder trapped underground. The ground shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. Ancient mortar crumbled.
“Move!” Cal grabbed the witness's arm, started pulling him toward the nearest exit. “Now!”
I was already running, my hand on the man's other arm, half-dragging him as another explosion rocked the tunnel. Closer this time. Deliberate. Someone was sealing the exits systematically.
