October 8, 1965
Peggy’s water breaks, right here on the doorframe. A small puddle. Soaking into the dirt floor.
I reach for a towel. She grabs my arm.
“Leave it.” Her voice is ragged, exhausted.
We embrace, then she pulls the door shut and locks it. I hear the bolt slide into the lock on the far side of the door and my skin twitches.
It’s a small room. About 12 x 20 with a little table, four chairs, two cots. Daddy supplied everything we’d need to survive a nuclear disaster. Canned goods. Water. Medicine. Blankets and clothes. Even board games. But no windows. No sound.
It’s like being buried alive.
My watch says I’ve been in here for three hours. Writing while I wait, writing it all down. Has Peggygiven birth? What if she dies? What if the baby dies? What if she has complications and Dickie refuses to take her to the hospital?
Nothing I can do about it now. Only wait. And try not to scream.
Chapter Ninety-Four
Kiersten
Kiersten looked up from the pad of paper in her hand. Margaret met her gaze.
“Richard killed her,” Margaret said. “Right here. In this room. I tried to stop him. But I failed. She failed. We failed. And Richard won. Richard always wins.”
Footsteps sounded. Kiersten whirled around and found Chip standing in the doorway with Richard ... Dickie ... behind him.
Then the door slammed shut.
Chapter Ninety-Five
Kiersten
Kiersten felt like she’d fallen from a tall building and landed on her back as the air rushed from her lungs. She gasped, sucking in nothing but silence.
Dead quiet screamed inside the room like a Klaxon as she gripped Margaret’s hands, staring into her faded green eyes.
Then the air rushed back into her body. She scooped panicked gulps into her lungs and launched herself at the door, screaming, pounding until her knuckles bled.
When the rage and shock drained away, she sank to the dirt floor. Margaret rose from the cot and sat beside her, dropping the scorecards into her lap.
“Read,” Margaret whispered.
There was nothing else she could do.
Chapter Ninety-Six
Dottie
October 8, 1965
The tapping noise starts around 7 p.m. Then concrete fragments flake off and fall from the ceiling.
The pounding gets louder, goes on for a long time. And now that little hole in the corner of the ceiling is bigger. That damn hole I asked Dickie to fix so many times.
Eventually someone in the garage above pokes a screwdriver through the hole, then the shaft of a hammer, like they’re measuring the size of the opening.
Then everything goes silent. It’s silent for a long time.
