Freaking out over a howling coyote that is at least a mile away will do nothing to bolster my nerve. With a shaky breath, I reign in my imagination and continue onward. When I reach the well, I drop the rope and shine the flashlight into its depths.
Light gleams over uneven stonework slick with moss and reflects off the water below.
Jude doesn’t know I’m here.
Neither does Twig.
The former would try to talk me out of it. The latter would want to join me on my side quest. But what can Twig do with his arm still in a cast? He and Naomi are better off keeping tabs on Lainey.
I scoop up a pebble and drop it into the shaft.
A second later, I hear a faint plunk.
If I had to guess, the descent will be twenty-five to thirty feet.
The question is, how deep is the water once I reach it?
I scope the area for a rock of suitable size.
I find a hefty stone near the bushes where I first discovered the moon-eyed creature and tie one end of the rope around it. I lower it into the well, hand over hand. When the stone hits water, I can feel a shift. I let it sink until it strikes the bottom. Then I pull it up and measure the length of wet rope.
Two feet.
My heart lifts.
“I can handle two feet,” I say aloud.
An owl hoots in reply—my curious audience of one.
I anchor the rope around the closest tree, pulling until the knot digs into bark. I’m a good rope climber. Back in elementary school gym class, I could scramble to the top faster than most boys. But I add a series of knots down the length just in case. I tighten the utility belt around my waist, clip the flashlight into place, and ease myself over the crumbling rim of the well.
The beam from the flashlight swings as I descend. The air is damp and heavy. Every time my boots connect with the stone, tiny fragments break loose and plink into the water below. I don’t let myself think too hard about what I’m doing. I justmove, lower and lower, my muscles tight with adrenaline, when the fluttering of wings and a high-pitched screech echoes through the shaft.
A bat flies right by my face.
With a choked scream, I lose my grip.
Flailing for a handhold, I fall the rest of the way, landing hard in a shock of cold. My boots sink into sludge as I scramble to my feet, the flashlight dripping with water and muck.
“No, no, no,” I cry, quickly unclipping it from my belt and wiping the lens with the sleeve of my hoodie.
For one heart-stopping moment, the light flickers and dies.
But then I give it a shake and the beam returns.
I set my hand on the stone and will the panic away.
“You’re okay,” I tell myself. “Everything is fine.”
The flashlight is working and as far as I can tell, I didn’t break anything in that fall. I do a mental check to verify. My bottom is going to be sore and my knuckles are scrapped, but all limbs are accounted for.
I take a breath and point the light at my feet.
I’m standing in two feet of freezing cold water polluted with sediment from the fall. If I’m going to find the key, I’ll have to do so by touch. Squatting slightly, I move aside a half-submerged bucketand begin groping with my hand. My fingers move over a tangle of rope that was once a pulley system when a sharp sting bites my palm.
Hissing, I jerk back and squeeze my hand into a fist.
After a beat, I hold my palm beneath the flashlight.
