I move to the window. The service entrance is two floors down and thirty feet to the left. I mapped escape routes my firstweek here, a paranoid habit from growing up in a house full of criminals.
And well, right now all I have to say to that little quirk is thank God for my paranoia. For once in my life, the crazy pays off.
The window opens silently. I oiled the hinges twice since I arrived, just in case. Funny how "just in case" becomes "thank fuck I did that" real quick in this family. Look at me, thinking like a criminal. Daddy would be so proud. If he weren't busy selling me off to please his slimy crooked brother.
The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, and I suck it into my lungs like it's the first clean breath I've taken in months. Fifteen minutes behind a curtain breathing cigar smoke and my uncle's cologne? I'm barely exaggerating.
The ledge is narrow. Maybe eight inches of decorative stone between me and a three-story drop to some gnarly looking spikes my family considers decorative. I have thoughts on that and a certain figure from history and his affinity for spikes, but I need to focus.
The wind whips my hair across my face. Below, the ground waits, dark, pointy and wholly unforgiving.
I force my body out of the window when my common sense screams for me to formulate a better plan.
And then muscle memory takes over. Hand over hand along the decorative molding. Feet finding holds I memorized in the dark. The stone bites into my fingers, cold and rough, scraping skin. My arms burn. My shoulders scream. The laptop bag shifts with every movement, threatening to throw off my balance.
Don't look down. Don't think. Just move.
The wind cuts through my thin shirt. My fingers go numb. I lose my grip for one heart-stopping second, nails scrabbling against stone, and the world tilts sideways.
I catch myself. Press my body flat against the wall and force myself to finally breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
Fuck. Me.
My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out everything except my own ragged breathing. Sweat makes my palms slick despite the cold, and my fingers slip against the stone. I wipe them one at a time, rough granite scraping skin, and keep moving. Hand. Foot. Hand. Foot. Don't think. Just move.
I reach the service entrance in under two minutes. It feels like hours. My arms tremble. My shoulders scream. The door is locked, but the code hasn't changed since I arrived. 7-7-2-4. My fingers shake so hard I miss the first button and have to start over. 7-7-2-4. My mother's birthday. She'd appreciate the irony of it saving my life.
Seamus probably thought it was sentimental. A tribute to his dead sister-in-law and made a mental note to change it. If I’m right, thank God he never got around to it.
My fingers tremble as I punch in the numbers. The red glowing keypad beeps and then turns green a second before the lock clicks.
I slip through into the narrow stairwell. Down two flights. Through the basement. The air is stale, dust and the hint of old mechanic oil clings to the dark walls.
I push through the darkness, slip out the back door. My target is the delivery entrance at the back of the property.
The second I am out of the basement, I put knees to chest.
The grounds are dark. All the security lights are positioned to watch the front of the house, not the back. Sloppy. Arrogant. Good for me no one ever expected someone to run from the inside.
My boots hit grass and pavement, barely marking a low thud as I haul ass.
I hit the tree line and keep going. Branches scratch my arms, leaving thin lines of fire across my skin. My lungs burn. My laptop bag slams against my hip with every stride. Roots try to catch my feet. I stumble, catch myself, keep running.
The night swallows me whole. Cold air. Dark trees. There’s a distant hum of traffic somewhere ahead and I keep my focus on that.
I don't stop until I see headlights.
Only then do I let myself think.
I brace my hands on my knees, gasping for air. My legs shake. Nah. My whole damn body shakes. The adrenaline starts to fade, leaving something colder in its wake.
Saturday. The auction is Saturday. That gives me five days.
Five days to vanish before I'm standing on a stage, half-naked, while men bid on my body. Not a lot of time to outrun a man who's never let anyone escape him.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone. The screen glows in the darkness, too bright, a beacon that screams here I am.
