William Royden

At the back of the house, there was a window into the cellar, set into the cement foundation.

It was the best way in.

Its lock had rusted away years before, and I thought it might just slide open.

Once again, we were thwarted.

The lock had at some point been replaced.

This time, Cording didn't hesitate.

He took his shirt off and wrapped it around his foot.

Then, having no other choice of action, he broke the window in with a single kick.

He put his shirt back on and shivered a little in the cold.

We climbed carefully into the cellar.

The window was just barely large enough for us.

When my feet touched the cement floor and I let myself drop fully in, I felt criminal and unclean.

The first thing Cording did was reach back up through the window and pull the video camera down to us.

The darkness was total, and he had to hold the flashlight on the camera so I could find the record button.

Then he pointed the flashlight beam in front of us.

In one corner of the room there was a water heater and the old bureau I remembered dragging down the steps about five years before.

Beside the bureau was something odd.

It was a pair of shoes sitting on the cement floor.

Sneakers.

Very small ones.