CHAPTER THREE

The computer screen in front of Gracie seemed to pulse in time with her headache. How could she think with all the racket the contractors were making?

Two hours ago, Preston and Jo, one of his employees, had arrived with her counter wrapped in so much plastic, it seemed to shimmer. Gracie’s heart had swelled. She’d watched for them all morning, her dread rising with each hour. But they had come on time, and things were moving forward.

Then the noise started. Gracie had suggested mounting one end of the counter to the wall to keep it in place if her customers leaned on it. Preston had laughed at the idea. It was too heavy to be moved. When she pushed the issue again, he huffed and said nothing more. Now she regretted it. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Returning her gaze to the computer screen, she scrolled through the site of a yarn dyer. She needed to place an order soon if she was going to receive it before January.

A drill screeched, jolting her thoughts.

Sighing, she gave up. Preston had said they would be done before four o’clock. At this rate, probably not. She and Ada would have to work around them to hang artwork tonight. She frowned. Why was Ada being so helpful now? Unfortunately, Gracie couldn’t afford to question or refuse the help.

She went upstairs for the pair of socks she was knitting. As she came back down, she assessed the space. The sofa she’d bought at a closeout sale sat near the fireplace. Two armchairs she’d found at a thrift store were being cleaned and reupholstered and would flank the sofa. Once they arrived. The delivery date kept getting delayed. Gracie couldn’t complain. She’d paid almost nothing for them. Along the walls were three white storage cubes she had assembled while sitting on the floor for long hours. She rubbed her sore lower back. She wasn’t looking forward to assembling the other three.

The space was starting to come together. Now could she fill it with crafters? She sat down on the couch and began knitting the sock. The circle of the stitches soothed her, and her thoughts drifted to other things she needed to do for the shop. Her shop. One she’d wanted to open since she was young. The dream began shortly after some women had come into her middle school and started a knitting group. Although not their intention, it became the place to dump troubled students.

Gracie had landed there soon after the group began, just back in school after a suspension. Her teacher had escorted her down to the small classroom where the knitting group was held, pulled the leader of the knitting group aside, and whispered, “Gracie doesn’t have a mother.”

Gracie had dropped her gaze to her shoes to miss the pitying look on the leader’s face. It was always that way. The poor, broken little thing look. How could a kid whose mother had died in childbirth and whose father was distant not be broken? Her knitting slowed. She didn’t have parents, and now she didn’t have Gran. The weight of loneliness weighted her shoulders, and she slouched. That’s the way it was now without Gran.

Behind her, a sharp trill cut through the air. The throbbing in her head intensified. She turned to find Preston looking sheepish. She massaged her temples. Laying aside her sock, she walked over to the counter.

“Sorry about that,” Preston said, “but there’s something back there.”

“Maybe a crawl space beneath the stairs?”

That earned her another frown from Preston. He motioned to the hole they’d cut in the drywall. “Looks like brick.”

Gracie tilted her head. Although the house was a typical townhouse with brick on the outside, there was very little inside. “Are you sure?”

“Yup. I could cut a bigger hole so we can see.”

Uncle Rand’s words rang in her mind like an alarm. “Don’t ruin the house.” She fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “Okay, but can you make the smallest hole possible?”

Preston stooped and put his hand on a space next to where the counter would be mounted. “We’ll cut it here. That will make it a little less noticeable.” He pulled out a saber saw and went to work cutting a bigger hole, a perfect square. He removed the cut like a slice of cake. “More brick.”

Gracie let out a sigh. “Do you think the whole thing is bricked?”

Preston looked at her, eyes questioning. “Yes, but the only way to find out is takin’ down almost all this drywall.”

Her stomach sank like a stone. “I guessed that.”

Her nerves jangling, she returned to her sock. But after a few mistakes, she stopped. Gran never did renovations to the house, only needed repairs. Gracie had been here for less than two weeks, and she was tearing down a wall. Did Gran even know what was there?

“Ms. Gracie?” a voice asked from very close. She turned her head to find Preston next to the couch.

She jolted. “Yes?”

He cast a worried look over his shoulder. “Uh, you need to look at this.”

She followed him back to the wall, but her steps slowed when she saw the door. Her heart tripped as she took a step closer. What in the world?

It stood about five feet tall and was made of wood. The key plate and doorknob looked to be brass dulled by age.

“Does this house have a basement?” Preston asked.

Gracie shook her head. “Just a root cellar.”

“You sure? The old houses in this area are full of secrets.”

A trill of curiosity traveled along her spine. This door led somewhere. Gracie stepped to the door, grasped the knob, and turned it. She pulled, and the door opened with a loud squeak fit for a horror movie. Preston took a step back.

Behind the door the air smelled wet, like earth and soil.

She peered down into the darkness. “Do you have a light?”

Preston handed her a flashlight and grimaced. “Are you sure you want to do that? I’ve seen some things in my line of work.”

Someone will have to. She flicked on the flashlight and shone it in the opening to reveal that the whole enclosure was brick, like an elevator shaft. There were also stairs, the open, wooden kind. They looked pretty much intact.

Preston peered over her shoulder. “Huh,” he said, the sound of his voice echoing down the stairs.

“Do those steps look like they’ll hold me?”

His look of curiosity turned to horror. “Ms. Gracie, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“They look sturdy enough.”

He sighed and took the flashlight from her. “If you’re determined to go down there, we should test them first.” He gripped the side of the doorway and gave the top stair a hard stomp. “Oh.”

Gracie jumped at the sound. The echo of the stomp floated up to her ears. “What?”

“They are pretty sturdy.” He stomped a few more times, shining the light on the stairs. “Nails look almost new.”

Gracie took the flashlight back. Her hand trembled a little as she stomped each stair as she went down like Preston had. She focused all her concentration on each step below her and reached the bottom before she knew it. She looked up and gasped.

The light revealed a small room with brick walls. It was about ten feet by ten feet with a dirt floor.

“Ms. Gracie?” Preston called from above.

“You can come down. The stairs are safe.”

She stepped away from the stairs and shone the light around the empty room. One end of the wall opposite the stairs had a different look to it. She shone the light on it. It was a wooden panel, about four feet wide, that reached almost to the top of the ceiling. A slice of light lined the top edge.

Preston reached the bottom of the stairs and let out a whistle. He moved past her toward the panel. “That doesn’t look very secure.”

He touched it, and it fell with a bang. He jumped out of the way, and Gracie yelped, nearly dropping the flashlight.

Steadying her breathing, she pointed the flashlight into the space the panel had hidden. There was a short passage. Behind that, old metal shelving with empty mason jars lined the walls of a small area. The root cellar. Why would the house have both a root cellar and a secret room?

“I know where this goes,” she said.

They walked into the root cellar and past the shelves together. Three short stairs sat below a door that was almost above their heads. Preston grabbed the door’s handle and, grunting, pushed the door up and open. He climbed out, and Gracie followed him. A small alley ran between where they stood and the next house.

Preston stood squinting, shielding his eyes with his hand.

“That was exciting.” Gracie tried to sound light, but her voice trembled. “I knew about the root cellar, but I never knew that other room was down there.”

Preston hadn’t moved. He was still staring at a house on the row across the street. “Uh, Ms. Gracie. I don’t think we should do anything else on the house yet.”

She whipped to face him. “Why not?”

He pointed at the house across the street. “A couple of years ago they figured out that house belonged to William Still.”

She frowned. “I know that name, but I can’t recall where from.”

“He was called ‘the father of the Underground Railroad.’”

“I remember now,” she said with a smile. The Underground Railroad was one of the many history lessons Gran had given her. “My gran said that people here believe there were several station houses nearby, but—”

Realization hit her hard enough to make her gasp.

Why would a house need a root cellar and a secret room?

To hide people who had escaped from slavery through the Underground Railroad.