She Vanished In New York — 2 Years Later She Was Found Inside A Wall | Crime

…

I restored this building myself.

Every beam, every pipe.

This house is a living organism, Maya.

If you respect it, it will protect you from the city.

He stopped at the door marked 2B.

The key turned in the lock with a soft, oily click.

The apartment was exactly as she had dreamed, a spacious studio with a high ceiling and a huge window overlooking the courtyard.

The walls were a deep gray, the parkquet flooring perfectly polished.

North side, Elias remarked watching her.

Even diffused light.

Perfect for your work with the archives, isn’t it? Yes.

Maya ran her finger along the window sill.

Not a speck of dust.

I need silence and concentration.

I restore old documents.

I guarantee silence.

The walls here are half a meter thick.

You won’t hear your neighbors.

Maya hesitated for only a moment.

Mr.

Elias, $800.

That’s too cheap for a place like this.

What’s the catch? No catch.

His tone became more serious.

I’m not looking for just any tenant.

I’m looking for the right person.

Quiet, neat, someone who understands the value of old paper.

He took a step closer and Maya felt the strange pressure of his presence.

I have one condition.

The basement contains an archive of blueprints for this building.

They are in poor condition.

I need a professional to preserve them.

10 hours a week of work in exchange for a discount.

If you agree, the apartment is yours.

It sounded like a gift from fate.

Maya nodded, ignoring the quiet voice of intuition that advised her to be more cautious with free cheese.

An hour later, Maya went out into the hallway to throw away the boxes.

She needed to get away from the watchful gaze of the living house for at least a minute.

In the hallway, she almost bumped into a girl coming out of the neighboring apartment.

2A.

She was an explosion of color.

Pink hair, short skirt, fishnet tights.

Oh, fresh blood.

The girl smiled broadly.

I’m Sarah.

Are you in the vault now? In the crypt? Maya asked.

Well, in 2B, it’s always dark there, but Elias calls it an aristocratic atmosphere.

Have you met our count yet? Elias? Yes, he seems very dedicated to his work.

He seems crazy, Sarah laughed.

But don’t worry, he doesn’t bite.

He just loves order more than people.

Downstairs, a door slammed and a guy with a huge delivery service backpack rushed up the stairs.

Sarah, my moped keys.

I lost them again.

Derek, you’re going to lose your head.

Sarah rolled her eyes.

Meet Maya.

She’s my neighbor from 2B.

Maya, this is Derek.

He’s a musician who delivers cold pizza to people.

Very funny.

Derek stopped and looked at Maya.

His gaze was lively and warm, the complete opposite of Elias’s icy eyes.

Hi, Maya.

Don’t listen to her.

It’s a normal apartment.

Only the Wi-Fi is lousy.

The walls block the signal.

This brief encounter in the hallway was a breath of fresh air.

Sarah and Derek seemed real, alive, imperfect.

In the evening, Maya sat in Elias’s office on the first floor.

The room resembled a museum, floor toseeiling bookshelves, a lamp with a green shade, perfect order.

She read the contract.

The tenant agrees not to change the color of the walls, not to have guests after 11 pm, and to access the archive room only in the presence of the owner.

Paragraph 14.

Elias said quietly.

This is for the safety of the materials.

One wrong move and history is lost.

Maya signed the paper.

The pen scratched too loudly on the paper in the silence.

Welcome to the family, Maya.

Elias took the contract and smiled slightly.

Now you are part of the foundation.

As she climbed to her apartment, it seemed to her that the house sighed.

The door closed, cutting her off from the noise of the city.

Now there was only silence.

A year in house number 412 changed Myelin more than 10 years of living in Ohio.

If her palenness had previously seemed aristocratic, now she looked sickly.

Dark circles under her eyes became constant companions, and her hands, which once confidently held a restorer’s scalpel, now often trembled slightly.

August had once again covered Brooklyn with a stifling blanket, but the windows of apartment 2B were tightly closed.

The heavy velvet curtains, kindly lent by Elias, did not let in a single ray of sunlight.

“Are you sure you put it here?” Elias’s voice was as soft as the velvet on the windows.

He stood in the doorway of her bedroom, watching Maya frantically rummage through the contents of the drawer.

Yes, Elias.

My passport and the money I saved were here this morning.

I remember it clearly.

Maya, he took a step forward, his shadow covering her.

We’ve already talked about this.

Your memory has been failing you lately.

It’s fatigue.

But tell me honestly, did you give the keys to that guy, Derek? No, of course not.

We had a fight a week ago.

I haven’t even seen him.

You didn’t see him? Elias nodded as if talking to a child.

But I did.

He was hanging around the fire escape last night.

He looked agitated.

Maybe he was looking for a way to apologize or to take what he thought you owed him.

Maya sank onto the bed.

The doubt Elias had planted months ago had sprouted and was now suffocating her.

Derek was impulsive.

He yelled when he was angry.

Maybe he really did.

I’m changing the locks.

Elias said firmly.

Today you need to feel safe in your own home.

No one will come in here without my permission.

I promise.

The following week, Derek came to make amends.

He stood outside the door of apartment 2B with a bouquet of wilted daisies and knocked.

Maya, open up.

I know you’re in there.

Let’s just talk.

Maya stood on the other side of the door, her back pressed against the cold wood.

Her heart was pounding so hard that it hurt her ribs.

She wanted to open the door.

She wanted to hear his laughter, which once filled the silence of this house.

But Elias’s voice echoed in her head.

He’s dangerous.

He steals from you.

He wants to destroy your peace.

The knocking grew louder.

Maya, this isn’t funny anymore.

Sarah said you haven’t left the house in 3 days.

What’s going on with you? Suddenly, other footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Slow, heavy, rhythmic.

The knocking on the door stopped.

“Young man,” Elias’s voice rang out like a gunshot.

“You are violating the rules of residence, and you are disturbing Miss Len.

” “I just want to talk to my girlfriend,” Derek snapped.

But there was uncertainty in his voice.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.

She asked me to protect her from your harassment.

” Harassment? Are you out of your mind? Maya, tell him.

Maya closed her eyes.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

She was afraid of Derek.

She was afraid that Elias was right.

She was afraid that if she opened the door, chaos would rush in and destroy the fragile cocoon of safety that Elias had built for her.

“Go away, Derek!” she whispered.

But then, gathering all her strength, she shouted through the door.

Go away.

I don’t want to see you.

You stole my money.

Get out.

There was silence behind the door.

Then she heard the sound of a bouquet hitting the floor and quick footsteps down the stairs.

There you go.

Elias’s voice sounded very close, as if he were speaking directly into her ear through the wood.

Now you’re safe.

I’m here.

The isolation became complete when Sarah intervened.

It happened a month after the incident with Derek.

Sarah waited for Maya as she went down to the basement.

My god, Maya.

Sarah grabbed her arm.

Her bright makeup looked vulgar in the dim light of the hallway.

You look like a ghost.

Are you eating anything? I’m working.

Maya tried to pull her arm away, but her friend’s grip was strong.

I have a big project.

Elias entrusted me with it.

Elias, Elias, Elias.

Sarah exploded.

Do you hear yourself? All you talk about is him.

He’s gotten into your head, Maya.

Derek didn’t steal your money.

That’s nonsense.

We all know this house is strange.

You need to move out right now.

Move in with me on the couch until you find something else.

You’re jealous, Maya said coldly.

The words weren’t hers.

They were someone else’s put into her mouth during the long hours in the basement.

You’re jealous because I have a goal.

I have a home that values me.

All you have are cheap bars and casual relationships.

Sarah recoiled as if she had been struck.

“You’re not Maya,” she said quietly.

“I don’t know who you are, but you’re not her.

” At that moment, the basement door opened.

Elias stood there in his usual immaculate suit, illuminated by the dim light from the depths.

Miss Jenkins, he said, your lease expires next month.

I have decided not to renew it.

I feel that your lifestyle is incompatible with the spirit of this building.

You have 3 weeks to vacate.

Sarah shifted her gaze from him to Maya.

Are you going to let this happen? He’s kicking me out.

Maya lowered her eyes.

You’d better leave, Sarah.

You’re interfering with my work.

The basement had become the center of Maya’s universe.

There was no time here, only the hum of the ventilation, the smell of old blueprints and restoration chemicals.

Elias often came down to see her.

He didn’t just check on her work.

He sat down next to her and talked.

Talked for hours.

He talked about architecture as if it were a religion.

People are weak, Maya.

They betray.

They lie.

They grow old.

But concrete is honest.

If the foundation is right, the building will stand forever.

You and I are alike.

We both understand that true beauty is order.

He brought her food because she forgot to eat.

He stroked her head when she was tired.

She began to perceive these touches not as a violation of boundaries, but as a reward.

She believed that the world above was chaos, pain, and betrayal, as Derek had done, as Sarah had betrayed.

And here below, protected by a ton of concrete and Elias, there was peace.

One evening, while working on the 1920 plan, Maya noticed something strange.

The drawing showed a room behind the eastern wall of the basement that did not physically exist.

Elias? She asked when he came in.

There’s a mistake in the drawing.

There should be a passageway here, but there’s a solid wall.

Elias froze.

For a moment, his mask of a caring mentor cracked, revealing something cold and predatory.

But he instantly regained his composure.

It’s an old project, Maya.

It was changed during construction because of groundwater.

Don’t worry about it.

You think too much about the details, but you need to see the big picture.

You need to rest.

I’ll make you some tea.

Special calming tea.

Maya drank the tea.

It was bitter but warm.

The world around her floated away.

Her fears disappeared, and all that remained was gratitude to the man who had saved her from a cruel world.

She did not know that from that moment on the trapdo had closed for good.

November brought rain and cold to Brooklyn, which penetrated even the thick walls of house number 412.

Maya Lynn hardly ever went outside.

Her world narrowed to the root apartment basement.

She lost weight.

Her skin became transparent like the old parchment she was restoring.

That evening, Elias left.

This rarely happened.

He said he had a meeting with city inspectors about the water supply.

I’ll be back at midnight, Maya.

Lock the door and don’t let anyone in.

Maya was left alone.

For the first time in months, she felt a strange emptiness in the house.

The silence, which usually calmed her, now seemed threatening.

She went down to Elias’s study on the first floor to get a spare printer cartridge.

She needed to print out a work report.

The office was perfect, as always.

But on the desk, which was usually empty, there was a box.

An ordinary cardboard shoe box that Elias had probably forgotten to put away in his haste.

Maya didn’t want to look inside.

She knew Elias hated it when people touched his things.

But her gaze caught on a familiar glint.

The end of a silver chain peaked out from under the lid.

Her chain, the same one she had lost 6 months ago in the park.

Elias had comforted her for a long time, saying that material things are transient.

With a trembling hand, she opened the lid.

Inside lay her life, which she thought she had lost, her passport, the cash she had been saving for a rainy day, and which had disappeared from the drawer.

Letters from her mother, which she thought had been lost in the mail, and an earring, a single long earring with a cheap blue stone.

Maya never wore such things.

It wasn’t hers.

Under the earring was an old Polaroid photo.

It showed a girl with red hair laughing as she sat on the steps of this house.

On the back in Elias’s handwriting was written, “Alice left in 2019.

Not ready for the foundation.

” A chill ran down Maya’s spine sharper than any November wind.

Left.

not ready for the foundation.

She remembered Elias’s stories about how difficult it was to find the right people.

She remembered his words.

You are part of the house, Maya.

He didn’t protect her.

He collected her.

He stole her life piece by piece, so she had nowhere to go but to him.

She heard the sound of an engine outside.

The light from the headlight slid across the ceiling.

Elias had returned early.

Panic hit her head like adrenaline.

Maya grabbed her passport and money and shoved them into her jeans pocket.

She ran out of the office, trying not to make any noise, but in the silence of the house, her breathing sounded like thunder.

She rushed into her apartment.

Her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely close the lock.

She had to escape now.

Through the fire escape, no.

Elias had welded it shut a month ago, saying it was for security against thieves.

The front door.

That was the only way.

She grabbed her jacket, pulled on her sneakers without even tying the laces.

Her phone.

Where was her phone? She found it under her pillow.

Dead.

Black screen.

Damn it.

She opened the apartment door.

The hallway was dark.

She heard the front door lock click downstairs.

Elias’s heavy footsteps on the tile floor.

He walked slowly.

He always walked slowly.

Maya went out onto the stairs.

She had to slip out while he was in his office.

She stepped on the wooden stairs, trying to remember which ones creaked.

The third step from the top.

Step over it.

The fifth.

Step over it.

She went down to the first flight.

The hall was empty.

The study door was a jar.

and the light from a green lamp was shining out.

She was almost at the exit.

Her hand was already reaching for the massive door handle.

You forgot your scarf, Maya.

It’s cold outside.

The voice did not come from the office.

It came from the basement stairs, which were in the shadow of the main stairs.

Maya froze.

She slowly turned around.

Elas was standing there half in the darkness.

He hadn’t taken off his coat yet.

He looked calm as always.

Only in his eyes, which reflected the dim light of the street through the stained glass of the door, was there something dead.

“I just wanted to go to the store,” she lied.

Her voice broke into a squeak.

“At 2:00 in the morning, with your passport in your pocket,” he took a step toward her.

“You were in my office.

That’s not a question.

You stole my things?” she shouted, backing away toward the door.

“You lied to me.

Who is Alice? Where is she?” “Alice was a mistake,” Elias replied calmly, continuing to approach her.

He was in no hurry.

He knew the door was double locked, and only he had the key.

“She didn’t understand.

She wanted to leave.

The house doesn’t like it when people leave.

” Maya pulled on the door handle, locked.

She began to frantically pound her fist against the wood.

Help.

Anyone.

No one will hear you, Maya.

The walls are half a meter thick.

I promised you silence.

He was already close.

Maya rushed to the stairs, hoping to lock herself in the apartment, break a window, do something.

But Elias was faster than he seemed.

He caught her on the first steps.

His hand, usually so gentle, squeezed her wrist like a steel vice.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice sounding not angry, but disappointed.

“You’re ruining everything.

We were so close to perfection.

Let me go.

You’re sick.

” Ma slapped him across the face with her free hand.

It was a mistake.

Elias’s face froze.

The mask of the caring guardian disappeared.

Only the architect remained, whose plan had been disrupted.

“The foundation must be strong,” he said in a strange, detached voice.

He pushed her, or she stumbled, trying to break free.

The world turned upside down, the sound of her body hitting the wood.

Then again, the dull thud of her head against the corner of the step.

Maya lay at the foot of the stairs.

She tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come.

Her head was ringing.

The light in the hall began to dim, narrowing to a single point.

She saw Elias standing over her.

He was adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

Quiet, Maya.

His voice sounded as if it were coming from underwater.

You’ll wake up the house.

He leaned over her.

She wanted to scream, but only a weeze came out of her throat.

The last thing she felt was the smell of dust and old concrete as he lifted her up.

Not like a woman, like building material.

Then came darkness and absolute silence.

Water always finds a way.

Architects, plumbers, and investigators know this rule.

You can build walls of reinforced concrete.

You can lie under oath.

You can hide the past behind double locks.

But sooner or later, a crack will appear.

In Elias Thorne’s house, that crack appeared on the night of October 12th.

The old cast iron pipeline laid at the beginning of the century under the foundation of the building could not withstand the pressure.

At first, it was just a damp spot on the basement wall.

Then, a thin stream, and by morning, the basement had turned into a pool of dirty, rusty water that undermined the very essence of the iron fortress.

The emergency crew arrived at 6:00 in the morning.

Two men in orange vests, cursing their job and the smell of sewage, went downstairs with jackhammers.

“We’ll have to drill here!” shouted the older one, Mike, drowning out the noise of the pump pumping out water.

“The pipe goes under the retaining wall.

The owner is going to be furious.

” “The owner is standing upstairs looking like we’re breaking his skull instead of concrete,” muttered the younger man, pressing down on the jackhammer.

The concrete yielded reluctantly.

Elias built conscientiously, even where no one could see.

But when the hammer broke through the screed near the east wall, the sound changed.

Instead of a dull thud against solid ground, there was a strange hollow crunch.

The tool fell into a void.

“Stop!” Mike shouted.

“Is there an underground passage there?” They shone their flashlights into the hole.

The water that poured in began to wash away the dirt, exposing what had been hidden.

At first, they saw fabric, gray, covered with dust and mold.

Then, something like the leather of an old discarded suitcase.

And only when the beam of the flashlight caught a human hand with long, dry fingers reaching toward the exit did Mike realize that this was not trash.

Jesus Christ,” he whispered, stepping back and dropping the flashlight into the dirty water.

“Turn everything off.

Call the cops.

” Detective Mark Hollis hated basement.

They always smelled of death, even if no one had been killed there.

But the basement of 412 smelled of something worse.

It smelled of time standing still.

Hollis was 50, and he had seen enough corpses not to lose his breakfast at the sight of decomposition.

But what lay in the niche behind the false wall made even him hold his breath.

The girl’s body had not decayed in the usual sense.

Thanks to the unique microclimate of the basement, dry with constant air circulation through the ventilation system designed by Elias and the air tightness of the hiding place.

The decomposition process had stopped.

The body had mummified.

The skin stretched over the bones becoming like parchment.

Her clothes, jeans, and a t-shirt hung loosely on her.

She resembled a creepy sculpture, an installation by a mad artist.

“What do we have, Doc?” Hollis asked, addressing the medical examiner who was working carefully with a brush, trying not to damage the fragile evidence.

“A woman about 20 years old.

It’s hard to say exactly when she died because of the mummification, but I’d say between a year and a half and 2 years ago.

Skull trauma, blunt object.

The blow was strong, possibly fatal, but there are signs of esphyxiation.

The position of the body, the expert paused.

She wasn’t just thrown down.

She was laid down.

Her hands are folded.

It looks like a burial.

Hollis nodded and walked over to the stairs.

There, in the shadows, stood Elias Thorne.

The owner of the house looked as if he had aged 10 years in an hour.

His impeccable suit was wrinkled, his face gray.

He wasn’t looking at the police, but at the broken wall.

Mr.

Thorne.

Hollis approached him, taking out his notebook.

I need to ask you a few questions.

Do you know who it might be? Elias slowly turned his gaze to the detective.

There were tears in his eyes.

Real tears.

I’m afraid I know, detective.

It’s Maya.

Maya Lynn.

She lived in 2B 2 years ago.

Hollis wrote down the name.

2 years ago.

Did she disappear? Did you file a report? She left.

Elias’s voice trembled.

At least that’s what we thought.

One night, she just disappeared.

Her things were still there, but her passport and money were gone.

She left a note, or what I thought was a note.

I thought she ran away with him.

Run away with him.

Hollis felt his hunting instinct kick in with her boyfriend, her ex Derek Ross.

I think he was a problem.

Elias sighed heavily as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

They fought constantly.

He yelled at her, demanded money.

I called the police several times because of the noise.

The night she disappeared, I saw him near the house.

He was drunk, yelling that he wouldn’t let her go.

I wanted to go out, but Elias covered his face with his hands.

God, I thought they just ran away together.

I thought she was happy somewhere in another state, but she was here all this time, right under my nose.

Hollis looked closely at the owner.

His grief seemed genuine.

The story sounded plausible, a standard scenario.

Domestic violence, an escape that didn’t go according to plan.

We’ll check this information, Mr.

Thorne.

Thank you for your cooperation.

The house would remain a crime scene for now.

2 days later, police station.

Detective Hollis’s desk was piled high with files.

The Maya Lane case, previously classified as cold, although no one was officially looking for her, instantly became a priority.

The press had already dubbed the victim the girl in the wall, and his superiors were demanding an arrest.

And Hollis had a suspect, the perfect suspect.

He was going through old patrol reports provided by the archives.

September 15th, 2021.

Call to 412 Green Avenue.

Complainant Elias Thorne.

Complaint of public disorder by citizen Derek Ross.

Threats of physical violence.

October 2nd, 2021.

Complainant Elias Thorne.

Derek Ross tried to break down the door of apartment 2B.

This guy is a walking problem, said Hollis’s partner, throwing a print out of the phone bill on the table.

On the night of the alleged murder, we’re taking the date of disappearance as a basis.

Dererick’s phone pinged within a 100 meters of Thorne’s house from 2 to 4:00 am Alibi? Hollis asked without looking up from the photos of the mummified body.

He says he was asleep alone in the apartment he rented with three other couriers.

No one can confirm whether he was in bed or went out for some fresh air.

Hollis rubbed his nose.

Everything was going too smoothly.

But in such cases, statistics were relentless.

In 90% of cases, a girl is killed by the one who said he loved her.

Bring him in.

Derek Ross had changed in 2 years.

He was no longer the energetic guy who jumped up the stairs.

Now he worked in a warehouse in Queens, had gained weight, and grown a scruffy beard.

When the cops came for him at work, he didn’t even resist.

He looked like he was waiting for it.

The interrogation room was gray and stuffy.

Derek sat staring at the table.

I didn’t kill her, he said quietly before Hollis had a chance to sit down.

I loved her.

Loved her so much you threatened her.

Hollis threw copies of the statements on the table.

So much that you tried to break down the door.

It was Elias.

Derek raised his head sharply.

An old spark flashed in his eyes, a mixture of anger and despair.

You don’t understand.

He brainwashed her.

She was normal, cheerful, and then she turned into a zombie.

He wouldn’t let me see her.

He lied to her about me.

I went there to save her.

Save her? Hollis leaned across the table.

The witness, Mr.

Thorne, claims that you yelled that night that if she didn’t be with you, she wouldn’t be with anyone.

That’s a lie.

I yelled for her to come out.

I called her.

We checked the calls, Derek.

There were no calls that night.

Because I smashed my phone, Derek exclaimed.

I was so angry that I smashed it against the wall of the alley.

Hollis sighed.

So you were drunk.

You were angry.

You broke your phone.

Conveniently, so the exact time couldn’t be traced.

You were outside her house.

And that same night, she disappears.

And now we find her walled up in the basement.

Who could know the basement better than the guy who was there? I’ve never been in the basement, Derek shouted.

Only he could have gone in there.

Elias, why aren’t you checking him out? It’s his house.

Hollis slowly stood up.

Mr.

Thorne is a respectable man.

He’s cooperating with the investigation.

He provided all the keys, all the plans.

He even showed us a contract stating that Maya had access to the basement and worked there.

And do you know what we found in her apartment, Derek? An earring.

One.

And we found the other one in your jacket pocket during the search this morning.

The same jacket that you, like an idiot, kept for 2 years.

Derek turned pale.

He stared at the detective with glassy eyes.

It’s a gift.

I bought them for her.

She threw one back at me when we were arguing.

And the other one, the other one was on her when she was killed.

Hollis finished.

It was a lie.

The second earring was found in a box in Elias’s office, but Elias handed it over to the police, saying he found it among Ma’s belongings after she disappeared.

But it was enough to put pressure on the suspect.

“I didn’t do it,” Derek whispered, covering his face with his hands.

God.

Maya Hollis left the interrogation room.

The prosecutor was standing behind the mirrored glass.

Well, he asked.

We have motive, opportunity, circumstantial evidence, and no alibi, plus a history of violence.

We can close the case, Hollis said.

But inside, somewhere deep down, the old detective felt an unpleasant itch.

Something wasn’t right.

Derek was an emotional fool, yes, but was he a cold-blooded killer who could wall a girl into concrete so neatly that she wouldn’t have been found for a hundred years if it weren’t for a rusty pipe? Hollis remembered Elias’s face, his calmness, his precise words.

“He’s too perfect a witness,” Hollis thought.

He returned to his desk and took out the floor plan Elias had provided.

old yellowed paper.

“Officer,” he called to the young patrolman.

“Find that girlfriend for me, Sarah Jenkins.

She lived there, too.

I want to hear her version of the crazy X.

” Meanwhile, in the house on Green Avenue, Elias Thornne sat in his study.

Pumps were still humming in the basement, pumping out water.

The house groaned, wounded, exposed.

Elias held a glass of water in his hands.

His hands did not tremble.

He looked at the empty space on the shelf where the box of trophies had once stood.

He had managed to burn the photo of Alice, but he had given the earring to the detectives.

She gave me one back when we were arguing.

Derek would say, “I found it in the apartment.

It must have fallen out when she was packing.

” Elias told the police it was a risk.

But Elias knew architecture.

He knew that the strongest structures were held together by counterweights.

Derek was his counterweight.

While the police were looking at the boy, no one would look at the foundation.

“Silence!” Elias whispered, taking a sip.

“Still silence.

” But he was wrong.

Somewhere in the city, Sarah Jenkins saw the news.

She saw Maya’s face on the screen and remembered the night she was kicked out.

She remembered the strange sound she heard that night when she came to pick up her last things, not the sound of an argument, the sound of a concrete mixer.

And she remembered Maya talking about the room that isn’t there.

Time passes differently in an interrogation room.

48 hours had passed for Derek Ross, but he felt as if he had aged 40 years.

He no longer shouted about his innocence.

He just sat there staring at the wall, broken by the news of Maya’s death and the weight of the accusations.

The district attorney was already preparing a press release about the case of the decade.

Detective Mark Hollis stood by the coffee machine, watching the commotion in the station.

The coffee was bitter, like the aftertaste of this case.

Everything fit together like a puzzle for three-year-olds.

Too simple.

Detective called the officer on duty.

You have a visitor.

He says it’s about the girl in the wall case.

Sarah Jenkins was standing in the lobby.

She had changed.

Gone were the bright hair and bold makeup.

She looked like a tired woman whom life had taught to fear loud noises.

Miss Jenkins.

Hollis approached her.

I was going to call you in for questioning.

You arrested Derek.

It was a statement, not a question.

The news says he did it.

We have strong evidence, Sarah.

He threatened her.

He was there that night.

Derek’s an idiot, detective.

He’s an emotional, loud idiot.

But he couldn’t have mixed the concrete, she said quietly.

What? Hollis frowned.

Concrete? Sarah repeated more firmly.

The night I came to get my things.

It was 2 days after Maya disappeared.

I wanted to get my toaster, which I had left at her place.

Elas wouldn’t let me in.

He said there was a burst pipe in the basement and he was doing emergency repairs.

I heard a noise, a rumbling, like a cement mixer.

I thought, “Who repairs pipes at 3:00 in the morning?” Hollis felt a chill run down his spine.

“Are you sure? I worked in construction one summer to pay for acting classes.

I know the sound of a mixer.

” And besides, she hesitated, pulling an old notebook out of her bag.

Maya was obsessed with those drawings.

A week before she disappeared, we met in the laundry room.

She was scared.

She said, “He’s lying about the space.

” In the 1905 plans, the basement is 10 square meters bigger than it is now.

There’s a room there that isn’t there.

The New York City Department of Buildings archives smelled of dust and bureaucracy.

Hollis, waving his police badge, forced the clerk to pull up the original plans for Green Avenue from 1900 to 1920.

He unfolded a huge yellowed sheet.

“There it is,” whispered Sarah, who insisted on going with him.

She pointed to the eastern part of the basement.

On the old plan, the room was marked coal chamber.

on the plans that Elias had provided to the police as current.

There was a solid loadbearing wall in that place.

Hollis superimposed the two plans on top of each other.

The wall behind which Maya was found was almost a meter thick.

But according to the standards of the time, it should have been no more than 30 cm.

He didn’t just hide her, Hollis realized.

He reduced the size of the basement.

He stole space to create a sarcophagus.

He took out his phone.

Duty officer, this is Hollis.

I need a warrant to completely dismantle the wall in the basement and search Thorne’s office using ground penetrating radar.

And call in the SWAT team.

We’re going to the architect’s house.

House 412 greeted them with silence.

Police cars blocked the street without sirens.

Hollis didn’t want to give Elias a chance to prepare.

Although knowing Elias, he was always ready.

When they burst into the hall, Elias was sitting on the stairs.

He was dressed in his best suit, his shoes perfectly polished.

He was drinking tea from a porcelain cup.

“You’re noisy, detective,” he said calmly, placing the cup on the step.

“This house doesn’t like noise.

” Elias Thorne, you’re under arrest for the murder of Maya Len, Hollis said, his hand on his holster.

Stand up, hands behind your head.

Elias slowly stood up.

He didn’t look scared.

He looked like a man who had been interrupted during an important conversation.

“Murder,” he repeated with a hint of irony.

“That’s a strong word.

I would call it integration.

” A group with sledgehammers and a special scanner went down to the basement.

10 minutes later, Hollis’s radio came to life.

“Detective, we broke through the wall in the office.

There’s a passageway here.

” “Take him,” Hollis ordered the officers, pointing to Elias.

“Let him see us break his masterpiece.

” Behind the false wall of the bookcase in the study was a narrow room.

It wasn’t just a hiding place.

It was an observation point.

On the table were old monitors connected to cameras hidden in the ventilation system of each apartment.

There were photographs on the walls.

Dozens of photographs.

Sleeping residents.

Maya working at her desk.

Sarah painting her nails.

Alice, the previous victim whom no one knew about, on the stairs.

But that wasn’t the scariest part.

On the shelf, neatly labeled with dates, were glass jars.

In one was a strand of red hair.

In another was a cheap plastic bracelet.

In the third, Maya’s glasses, which she lost in the first month.

“You didn’t just kill them,” Hollis whispered, looking at Elias.

“You lived their lives.

” Elias smiled.

It was a cold, dead smile of a statue.

They were temporary, detective.

People come and go.

They damage the walls.

They make noise.

They bring chaos.

I gave them purpose.

Maya wanted to go down in history.

She did.

She holds up the east corner.

She’s the strongest part of this house.

Without her, it would collapse.

Take this lunatic away.

Hollis turned away, feeling nauseous.

As Elias was led away in handcuffs, he didn’t look at the crowd of reporters.

He looked at the house.

“I just wanted peace,” he whispered before they put him in the patrol car.

“Derek was released that same evening.

He walked out of the station, squinting at the camera flashes.

He wasn’t a hero.

He was just a guy who had survived.

Sarah was waiting for him by the car.

They didn’t hug.

They just stood there, two people broken by one house, smoking a single cigarette between them.

She wanted to leave.

Derek said quietly.

That night I know it.

She left.

Sarah replied, looking at the lights of Brooklyn.

Just not the way we thought.

Detective Hollis stood in front of 412.

It was now surrounded by yellow tape.

The windows were dark.

Without its owner, the iron fortress looked like nothing more than a pile of bricks.

A dead stone.

Hollis’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

A call from his wife.

Mark, are you coming home?” “Yes, honey,” he said, taking one last look at the dark window of apartment 2B.

“I’m coming home.

” He got into his car.

The case was closed.

The killer had been caught.

Justice, as the newspapers like to say, had prevailed.

But as he drove away, Hollis couldn’t shake the thought of the jar with the red lock of hair labeled Alice 2019.

How many more jars like this were hidden in the foundations of New York? How many more girls had just left? The city remained silent.

It knew how to keep its secrets in concrete.

Case number 24098 was declared closed.

Elias Thorne was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

A month after the verdict, he was found dead in his cell.

He had hanged himself with a sheet, leaving a message on the wall written with a bar of soap.

Bad soundproofing here.

The house on Green Avenue was demolished a year later.

A parking lot was built in its place.

But sometimes when the wind blows from the river, locals think they hear the creaking of old wooden stairs where there is now only asphalt.