Another belonged to a man who had died five years earlier.
A third had my name.
I looked at Evelyn.
"What is this?"
She whispered:
"The reason your house was chosen."
The tunnel extended beneath the entire block.
It wasn't a simple crawlspace.
It was an old municipal service corridor.
Concrete walls.
Rusting pipes.
Electrical lines.
Metal doors.
There were even old rails running through the center.
Someone had transformed it into something else.
A hidden warehouse.
Shelves filled both walls.
On them were files.
Thousands of them.
Property records.
Medical forms.
Photographs.
Keys.
Bank statements.
Mail.
I found a folder with my father's name.
Thomas Cole.
My hands began shaking.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph of my father standing beside Harold Voss.
But Harold looked much younger.
The date was 2003.
I looked at Evelyn.
"You knew my father."
She nodded.
"He found the tunnel."
"When?"
"Before you were born."
"What happened?"
"He tried to expose what was happening."
"What was happening?"
She pointed toward the files.
"People were losing their homes."
"Because of garbage?"
"Because someone made them look unstable."
She explained.
The scheme was simple.
Target an older homeowner.
Enter through the underground corridor.
Dump garbage inside.
Destroy documents.
Move medication containers.
Damage furniture.
Then call the county.
The county inspector would photograph the house.
The photographs became official evidence.
The homeowner would be declared incapable of maintaining the property.
An emergency lien would be placed against the house.
Then a development company would purchase it for a fraction of its value.
It was sophisticated.
Quiet.
Legal-looking.
And almost impossible to prove.
Unless you knew about the tunnel.
I looked at the files.
"How many?"
"At least thirty."
"And my house?"
Evelyn looked away.
"Your father stopped them once."
"When?"
"Twenty years ago."
"How?"
"He found the original records."
"What happened to him?"
She didn't answer.
"Evelyn."
"He disappeared."
My chest tightened.
"My father didn't abandon us?"
She shook her head.
"Not the way your mother told you."
Before I could ask more, footsteps echoed through the tunnel.
Evelyn grabbed my arm.
"Hide."
We ducked behind a shelf.
Three men passed.
One carried a flashlight.
Another pushed a cart full of garbage bags.
The third was Harold.
He stopped beside a metal door.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, "this house transfers."
The other man nodded.
"And the basement?"
"Destroyed by Friday."
My blood went cold.
"Why?"
"Because that's where the old records are."
Harold walked away.
I waited until they disappeared.
Then I whispered:
"My father knew."
"Yes."
"And he hid something here."
Evelyn nodded.
"Your mother found it."
"My mother?"
"She continued his work."
I stared at her.
"My mother died six years ago."
"I know."
"How?"
"Because I was there."
I felt as if the ground had shifted beneath me.
"What happened?"
"She met someone in this tunnel."
"Who?"
Evelyn looked toward the far end.
"Rachel Mercer."
I recognized the name.
Rachel Mercer was a former deputy prosecutor.
She had become a private legal consultant.
She had appeared on television several times discussing property fraud.
People called her an expert.
Evelyn's voice became quiet.
"She wasn't fighting the scheme."
"She was running it."
A sound came from behind us.
A door opened.
We turned.
A woman stepped into the corridor.
Rachel Mercer.
She was wearing a dark coat.
She looked calm.
Almost elegant.
She smiled.
"Nathan."
I stared at her.
"How do you know my name?"
"Your father talked about you."
"My father is dead."
Rachel smiled.
"No."
The word struck harder than anything else.
"No?"
"Your father is alive."
I couldn't breathe.
"Where?"
"Closer than you think."
Evelyn stepped in front of me.
Rachel sighed.
"Evelyn, you were always sentimental."
"You killed people."
"No."
"You destroyed their homes."
"I acquired distressed properties."
"You planted garbage."
Rachel looked at me.
"Sometimes people need to see the truth before they understand what they're losing."
I almost laughed.
"You've lost your mind."
"No."
She pointed toward the files.
"Your father made one mistake."
"What?"
"He believed evidence automatically creates justice."
She smiled.
"It doesn't."
Then the lights went out.
Complete darkness.
I heard footsteps.
A metal door slammed.
Someone grabbed me.
I fought.
Evelyn screamed.
Then a voice whispered beside my ear.
"Your father wanted you to find the tunnel."
I froze.
The voice continued.
"But he never expected you to find the wrong room."
A hand shoved me forward.
I fell through a doorway.
The door slammed behind me.
When the lights came back on, I was alone.
Except for one person.
An older man sat chained to a pipe.
His face was bruised.
His hair was gray.
He looked at me.
And I recognized his eyes.
"Dad?"
He closed his eyes.
Then whispered:
"You're not supposed to be here."
For twenty years, I had imagined what it would be like to see my father again.