Not breaking.
Moving.
A disguised panel of stone and plaster shifted inward, revealing darkness behind it and the cold breath of a space that had been sealed from the rest of the house for decades.
I stumbled toward him.
Inside was a narrow passage barely wide enough for one person, shelves cut into the wall, and a recess hidden deeper in shadow. Ricardo reached in and pulled out something wrapped in old oilcloth.
It was heavy enough that both his hands tightened around it.
He laid it on a crate and unwrapped it carefully.
