Page 46 of Silent Grave

The beam of her backup light caught the crystalline structure of the tunnel wall, and for a moment, professional curiosity pushed through her fear. The geology here didn't match any of the official surveys. The copper deposits were richer, more extensive than documented. The veins she'd found showed concentrations of ore that should have kept the mine profitable for decades beyond its reported closure.

It might be the last discovery she ever made.

A sound cut through the darkness—perhaps loose rock settling, perhaps something else. Diana killed her light immediately, pressing herself deeper into the narrow passage. Five bullets left. She'd been counting them obsessively, touching each one in the magazine like a rosary bead. Five chances to survive, assuming she could even see what she was shooting at.

She thought about her sister Carol, probably sick with worry on the surface. About the samples in her pack that proved the mining company had lied about these deposits playing out. About the strange marks she'd found carved into the walls—crosses that looked decades old, evidence of someone else who'd once hidden in these tunnels.

But most of all, she thought about the map. The careful, precise alterations. The methodical way her pack had been repacked. Whoever was down here with her, he wasn't some opportunistic killer. He was patient. Methodical.

And he was waiting.

Diana pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the protest of stiff muscles. Staying still meant dying slowly. Moving at least gave her a chance, even if she wasn't sure where she was going.

She clicked her light on, keeping the beam pointed at the ground. The battery was holding steady—she'd been careful about rationing its use—but she couldn't risk drawing attention with too much illumination. Just enough to avoid walking into a shaft or over a ledge.

Her geological training helped her read the tunnels, even with minimal light. The way water flowed, the slope of the floor, the patterns of erosion—they all told stories about depth and direction. She might not know exactly where she was, but she could tell she was gradually moving upward through the system.

Unless, of course, that's exactly what he wanted her to think.

A draft of air caught her attention—slight but distinct. She paused, holding her hand out to feel its direction. Air movement usually meant a connection to the surface, but it could also indicate a deeper shaft drawing air downward.

Still, following an air current was better than wandering blindly.

She followed the draft, marking her path with small arrows scratched into the wall. Not that she entirely trusted her own marks anymore—she'd found some of her earlier ones altered or obscured. But she had to try something.

The tunnel widened into what had once been a major excavation chamber. Support beams criss-crossed the ceiling, many rotting with age and moisture. Her light caught something odd near the far wall—a darker area that seemed to absorb the beam rather than reflect it.

Diana moved closer, gun ready, trying to stay silent on the debris-strewn floor. As she approached, details emerged from the darkness.

A foam sleeping pad. A military-style backpack. Empty water bottles and MRE wrappers carefully collected in a plastic bag.

Someone had been living here. Recently.

She swept her light around the area, taking in more details. A small camping stove. A battery-powered lantern. A stack of technical manuals about mining equipment. Everything was meticulously organized, almost obsessively neat.

Then her beam caught something that made her breath catch—a wall of photographs. Dozens of them, carefully arranged in neat rows. Some were clearly old, yellowed with age. Others looked recent. She stepped closer, careful to stay aware of the chamber's entrances.

The photos showed people in the mines. Workers from decades past, standing proudly with their equipment. More recent images of hikers and explorers, clearly taken without their knowledge. And in the center...

Diana's hand shook slightly, causing the beam to waver. In the center were photos of Tyler Matthews. Marcus Reed. Their images captured in the darkness, unaware they were being watched. Being hunted.

A final photo caught her eye—herself, taken just days ago, photographing mineral samples in the north tunnel. She was focused on her work, completely oblivious to being observed.

Something else hung on the wall beside the photos—a cross, old and tarnished. Not just decorative, but worn smooth in places, as if someone had handled it obsessively over many years.

This wasn't just a camp. It was a shrine. A memorial. A testament to whatever twisted purpose drove the killer to stalk these tunnels.

A rock clattered somewhere in the darkness behind her.

Diana spun, raising her gun, but her light showed only empty tunnel. The sound came again—closer this time? Farther away? The mine's acoustics made it impossible to tell.

She had to move. Had to get away from this place. But as she turned to leave, something caught her eye. Partially hidden behind the sleeping pad was a tunnel entrance she hadn't noticed before. It was smaller than the others, clearly man-made rather than part of the original mine.

Diana moved toward the small tunnel, keeping her gun ready. Behind her, another rock clattered—definitely closer this time. She had seconds to decide: risk the unknown tunnel or retreat the way she'd come.

Making a split decision, she hurried into the smaller passage and clicked off her light. Pressed against the rough wall, she tried to control her breathing, to stay silent as footsteps entered the chamber outside.

They were unhurried, confident. The sound of someone who knew exactly where he was going. She stayed absolutely still, grateful for the darkness of her hiding spot.

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