I snatch my phone and spin around to find the quickest way out. That’s when I catch a glimpse of movement. A dark shape slipping past a doorway at the other end of the hall. I don’t wait to see who it is. I bolt for the front door, lungs burning, adrenaline surging.
I race toward the SUV, cutting diagonally over a tarp-covered area because it’s faster. I’m halfway to the car when the ground beneath my feet disappears. Crumples. And then I’m falling.
twenty-six
She Doesn’t Know What’s Good for Her
The world turns sideways as I hit the bottom of a deep trench with a bone-rattling thud. Pain shoots through my ankle. Groaning, I push myself up, my heart sinking when I realize I’m nearly six feet down from the ground. This trench must’ve been used for storage or something, because there are old broken skids and termite-rotted pallets all around me. Oh God. I came dangerously close to landing on a wooden stake.
“Ryan!”
I hear my cousin’s frantic voice from above, and then she appears, leaning over the edge, her face stark white against the dark sky.
“Ryan! Oh my God, are you okay?”
I manage a shaky nod, even though every part of me is screaming in pain. “I think I sprained my ankle.”
Jasmine grimaces. “How do we get you out of there? Can you pile up those wooden boxes, maybe, and climb up?”
“No. They’re all broken and falling apart. I don’t think any of them would hold my weight.” My head spins a little as I look up at her, the dirt of the pit casting eerie shadows.
“Okay. Just hang on. I’ll find something to pull you up.”
“Be careful, Jazzy,” I warn her. “I heard someone in the house. Like, loud footsteps. We’re not alone out here.”
Her mouth tightens with fear, and she glances over her shoulder as if expecting someone to jump out at her.
“Watch your back,” I say. “Be quick.”
She hesitates before backing away from the edge. Each second she’s gone drags into an eternity. I wait there, helpless in the pit, watching shadows shift above me.
Sinking down to my knees, I fight it as long as I can. But it invades, the panic, as it always does when I feel trapped. I’m suddenly hiding under the bed again, trembling with terror as I hear my father’s footsteps approaching. I forcibly shove the memory out of my head, but it’s just replaced with another one.
Making birdcages on the kitchen table the summer before he was captured. I see him. My father, carefully working the iron bars into the platform, fixing the intricately carved wooden top onto it. He loved to whittle these things, making them as beautiful as any dollhouse I’d ever seen.
“Oh, little sparrow. Why shouldn’t these pretty creatures have a place to stay?” he asked me.
“But, Daddy,” I protested, “with the cages, they can’t come and go. They’re trapped.”
He chuckled then. “That’s because some birds are so pretty, theyhaveto belong to someone. Otherwise, everyone would want them. They’d be in danger.”
It made sense in my six-year-old mind, why the most beautiful birds had owners. Once, I saw a bright green parrot flitting through the leaves, and I pointed it out to him. He tried to coaxit down from the branches—come here, pretty girl—but it spread its wings and flew off. Dad said it was someone’s escaped pet, because there weren’t any wild parrots in our woods.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “She doesn’t know what’s good for her. She doesn’t know that out here, alone, she’s only going to die.”
Now, at the bottom of the pit, my breath comes in short gasps. The air feels toxic. I can’t breathe. I start to pant, thinking of my father, of his touch. I used to be comforted by it, but now it’s all around me, his hands around my throat, choking me…
Every rustle, every creak of branches, is deafening. A crack of a twig echoes somewhere nearby, and my heart hammers against my ribs. I strain to see where Jasmine went, but the edge of the trench blocks my view. She’s out there alone, exposed, and all I can picture is that dark figure jumping up behind her, silent as a ghost, ready to—
A sudden snap echoes above me.
“Jaz?” I call out, a spike of fear cutting through me.
Her voice comes back, slightly breathless but steady. “I found a rope in the trunk. Just hold on!”
Her footsteps get closer until she’s standing at the edge. She tosses me the rope and I catch it, the rough fibers scraping my palms as I hold tight. Jasmine braces herself, planting her feet and tightening her grip. I’ve seen her cheerleading tumbling routines, so I know she’s strong, but I’m terrified she won’t be able to help me up.
“You ready?” she asks.
