“Hey!” I yelled.
There was no response; granted, it was hard to tell over the rumble of the machines and flood of water. I put a hand out, fingers brushing the cool cement wall, and started toward the stairs.
My foot bumped into the bottom step. I couldn’t see a damn thing; it was like a crypt in there. I swore under my breath and went up the first couple of stairs—and realized there was someone with me in the humid darkness. Someone at the top of the stairs, blocking the exit.
I could feel him—and it was definitely a him because I could smell his cheap aftershave—feel his warmth and bulk—although I couldn’t see him. I stopped midcharge and teetered off balance for a second.
He growled, “Eva Aldrich is ancient history. Butt out or you’ll be history too.”
A couple of meaty hands planted in my chest, and he shoved me hard.
I fell back, grabbing blindly at empty air, and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a painful sprawl at the bottom, my head grazing one of the vibrating washers. Dimly I was aware of the door above me opening, a flash of afternoon sunlight, and the door banging shut again.
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