The hospital called me before midnight and told me my six-year-old son was dying.

The revelation felt like a physical blow to my chest. I fell back into a plastic chair, the cold coffee slipping from my hand and splashing onto my shoes.

"Me?" I whispered. "But... I don't remember. I don't remember a basement."

"Trauma does strange things to the human brain, Emily," Miller said, pulling his chair closer. "Especially childhood trauma. You block out the worst of it to survive. Do you remember ever being locked away? Do you remember missing days of school?"

I closed my eyes, trying to reach back into the foggy, terrifying memories of my childhood. I remembered my mother’s coldness. I remembered the endless "time-outs" where I was locked in a dark closet for hours because I spilled milk or spoke too loudly. But a concrete room? A trapdoor?

"I remember the smell," I whispered, my eyes flying open. "Soot and damp earth. I used to wake up with that smell in my nose, even when I was in my own bed. I thought it was just nightmares."

"It wasn't a nightmare," Miller said grimly. "We’re interrogating Madison right now. She’s cracking. She was always the favorite, the one Helen shielded, but she’s weak. When we showed her the photos of the basement, she started shaking. She’s terrified of her mother, but she’s more terrified of going to prison for the rest of her life."

He walked over to a glass window looking into Interrogation Room B.

Inside, Madison sat huddled in a gray fleece blanket, her makeup smeared, her fingers clawing at her cuticles. A female detective was sitting across from her, speaking in quiet, measured tones.

"We're going to let her talk," Miller said. "And then we're going to break Helen."

I stood up, walking to the glass. Looking at my sister, I felt no pity. Only a sickening sense of betrayal. She had stood by and watched my son be tortured. She had laughed. She had told me he got what he deserved.

"I want to hear what she says," I said. "Put me on the audio feed."

Miller hesitated, then reached over and flipped a switch on the wall speaker. Madison’s voice filled the small room, trembling and high-pitched.

"...I didn't want to help her!" Madison sobbed, her hands covering her face. "But Mother said... she said if we didn't teach him a lesson, he would turn out like Emily. Arrogant. Defiant. Mother hated how Emily left us. She hated that Emily got a real job, that she didn't need us anymore. When Noah saw the trapdoor open last week... he asked too many questions. He saw the toys down there."

"What did Helen do when he saw the door, Madison?" the detective asked.

"She... she grabbed him," Madison whispered, her voice shaking violently. "She threw him down the stairs. I told her it was too much! But she laughed. She said he needed 'correction.' She kept him down there for two days. I only went down to give him water, I swear! But Mother found out and she took the key. She left him there in the dark. It was freezing, Emily... I mean, Noah was freezing. He wouldn't stop screaming for his mom."

I gripped the edge of the table so hard my fingernails turned white. I wanted to tear the glass down. I wanted to rip her throat out.

"And Leo?" the detective asked. "Leo Vance. What happened to him?"