The woman in the cellar
She was sitting against the wall, curled up.
I didn’t know her.
She was about thirty years old, with tangled hair and a pale face.
When the police opened the door, she blinked as if the light was hurting her.
She was not chained.
But she wasn’t free either.
She whispered:
“He told me I couldn’t leave.”
Chaos erupted upstairs.
The shouts. The questions. The accusations.
My grandmother, Evelyn, was sitting in her armchair, trembling.
“I didn’t know,” she repeated.
The truth comes out.
The woman’s name was Clara.
She had responded to an advertisement to rent a room at a low price. The advertisement was in my grandmother’s name.
But my grandmother didn’t even know how to use the internet.
Someone else had posted the ad.
Someone from the family.
Suspicion quickly fell on my uncle Richard, my grandmother’s youngest son.
He was still living with her, officially to “help” her.
He was the one who managed his finances.
He was the one who had access to the cellar.
He was the one who often disappeared during the party.
When the police questioned him, his face fell.
The rest is on the next page
