Page 23 of Grace

“Chase… please. I beg you. My parents, my siblings—and…”

“Billy?” he asked, smiling, one eyebrow lifting in question. “He’s the one you want to give yourself to?”

“None of your business. You’re insane!”

I tried to bolt past him, but he shoved me back easily. I slammed into the metal frame of the bed. I moaned and started crying from the pain. The spot where he’d hit my head earlier began to throb. My head, my back, my leg—everything hurt. And my heart… broke when I thought of Mom and Dad. They would worry themselves sick because of me.

Chase crouched down beside me.

He wasn’t cute.

Or nice.

Or understanding.

He was frightening. And selfish.

A real monster.

Suddenly, noises cut through the gloomy silence—moaning, cries of pain, someone moving around in the next room.

“Jesus, he is alive!”

I ignored the pain and surged to my feet with such force that Chase fell back onto his ass.

I tore the door open.

When I saw Mr. Miller’s bloody, chalk-white face, I screamed.

I fell onto all fours on the old-fashioned, waterlogged, musty wooden floorboards, which had no sealing layer beneath them. Wet, black soil was wedged between the split planks.

Mr. Miller raised his arms, holding something hard. He was about to swing, but when he saw me, his hands froze.

“Run, Grace, run!” he shouted.

And when Chase appeared in the doorway, he struck.

The object hit Chase’s skull with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed onto the gray wall—and across Mr. Miller’s face. Chase collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Tears filled my eyes, and the adrenaline surging through my body dulled the pain. I gasped for air. When I saw Mr. Miller kick Chase’s motionless body, my chest tightened.

I got to my feet and broke into a run.

As soon as I tore the door open, the smell of cool, wet, musty soil grew stronger. The damp staircase had the typical smell of a cellar.

I stumbled upward, one hand sliding along the wall. Cobwebs clung to my fingers and tangled in my hair. Any other time, I would’ve freaked out—but at that moment, spiders were the least of my worries: an iron door blocked my way.

I managed to push it partly open, squeezed through the narrow gap, and started running into the unknown.

I didn’t get far before strong hands seized my arms. My feet tangled with my attacker’s, and I screamed as we fell. I thrashed and kicked wildly.

“Relax, Grace!”

“What are you doing?” I screamed into the night. “We have to run!” I sobbed, while Mr. Miller hushed me and stroked my hair.

“I hit him in the head. He’s dead. Everything is covered in blood down there.”

“Please, Mr. Miller…” I felt weak, but I fought like a cornered animal—clawing, pinching, tearing at his clothes, biting his finger.