Later that afternoon, after Harris had left the first small inspection hole and promised to return with more tools, Lucy couldn’t resist going back into Emma’s room. The patch of exposed darkness drew her. She knelt beside it, torch in hand, and angled the beam into the narrow void.
The light picked out dust and rough timber, then something else—a small, rounded shape near the edge of the opening. It lay half buried in grime, the size of her palm. Lucy hesitated, then pulled a pair of washing‑up gloves from her pocket and reached carefully into the gap, fingers brushing cold, gritty wood.