This was Jude’s basement.
Dammit.
Jude was in trouble. I needed to warn him.
If he came home, Russo would kill him. Jude needed my help. And I needed to kick Russo’s ass.
Luckily I’d already taken Irene’s old workshop about getting out of zip ties a few months ago when I’d come home for a quick weekend visit. I’d missed the refresher, but I didn’t think that mattered. I remembered what she taught me.
I bent the edge of a zip tie near my ankles. These might just be the same ones I’d seen in Jude’s drawer. So that meant Russo took them for convenience. And they weren’t steel-reinforced police restraints.
Careless, Russo. Real careless.
I got to my knees and managed to wobble to my feet, hands in front. This part? Easy. I pressed my palms together, raised both hands as far as I could, and slammed them down on my waist.
Ow. That smarts.
The first time didn’t work. Nor did the second. But… third time? All charm.
And—bonus, I didn’t snap my wrists in the process. Bones and ligaments intact. Skin red and raw, but I could live with that. Thismaneuver was harder to do with my feet, so I grabbed the Operation board game, fished the electric tweezers out of it, and stuck one end into the bracket of the zip ties around my ankles. I fumbled with the mechanism until I could run the loop back through it. Feet freed. Easy peasy.
Adrenaline flowed through my body, washing out the dregs of Russo’s roofie, as I quickly looked for exits. The door on the other end of the room led to the basement’s bathroom. And aside from a window behind the love seat, which looked latched and hard to get to, the steps were the only way out. I scoured the basement for a weapon, but didn’t find anything useful in the stack of board games or on the foosball table. I glanced around, desperate for something, anything, and then I spied theFortune Fatedfake gun on the wall. I picked it up again. It did have some heft. I mean, I could maybe whack someone with it. It was this or the pumpkin candle.
My heart thumped.
Could I take on Russo?
This was no pretty-boy Eric who lived to take pictures at the gym instead of learning how to throw a real punch. Russo knew how to punch. Hard. He fought dirty, too. I was almost sure of it.
I needed help. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed the damn cavalry. If I ever saw Oscar again, I’d tell him I really, finally, was ready to ask for help.
Jude had no landline, and Russo had taken my phone, but I knew there was a panic button by the front door. That was my best hope. That, or just get free of the damn house and run to the sheriff’s station. It was half a block down the road.
I eyed the single window in the basement and dragged an ottoman over to it. But it was sealed shut with old paint. I needed to have words with Jude. What was the point of driving ten milesunder the speed limit if he allowed a clear fire hazard in his basement?
I tiptoed up the carpeted basement stairs, fake laser gun in my hands, as I held my breath and listened for footfalls. Or any sign of life above. Had Russo been dumb enough to leave me zip-tied alone? God, I hoped so.
I kept my back against the wall of the basement stairs as I carefully inched upward, noticing Russo left the door open on the landing. As I moved upward, I saw the empty foyer and the sliver of the kitchen, but not the front door. I climbed up another step.
The floorboard beneath the basement’s carpeted step creaked.
I froze.
My heart hammered in my chest.
I waited, listening. For any sound of life on the first-floor landing, for the sound of Russo’s heavy footfalls.
I heard none.
My heart was in my throat as I peeked into the foyer. The kitchen was dark, as was the staircase with the wrought-iron railing leading up to the second floor. I couldn’t see much up past the first few steps.
But the front door was in reach.
I glanced upward. Pitch-black shadows shrouded the second-floor landing and much of the staircase. Someone could be hiding there. Or in the kitchen.
But I needed to get to the front door.
I’d have to risk it.
