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Chapter 9
Iwould say that my life has been devoid of anything resembling luck thus far. Maybe the fates have finally smiled upon me, because beyond the laundry room, we find a stairwell extending down.
I lead the way, my heart in my throat, but at the base of the steps, propped open with a cinder block, is yet another door.
Fresh air tickles my nose, acrid and heavy—but it’s too good to be true. I know that even before I hear the low, grating hum of a man whistling nearby.
“Shhh,” I hiss to Ama, who goes still on the bottom step.
Inching forward along the wall, I spot the culprit of the sound. He’s leaning against the outside of the building, blowing cigarette smoke into the open air. Dressed in a bulky shirt and jeans, he doesn’t seem like one of Robert’s men. A worker of this building perhaps?
I scan him more intently, deciphering what little clues I can. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up enough to reveal a tattoo on his forearm: a gyrating serpent intertwined with a cross.
Frantic, Ama paws at my shoulder. “There’s someone there,” she breathes against my ear. “What now?”
My eyes go to the makeshift doorjamb, and once again, I channel Mischa. What was it he told Mouse?You can’t hesitate.
“Wait!” Ama gasps as I slink forward. “What are you doing?”
I’m not sure. I can’t let myself think it through, either. Quietly, I stoop for the brick and replace it with my bare foot. My leg trembles, fighting to support the door’s weight as I lift the brick as high as I can—which is mere inches from the ground.
You want to die a pathetic little bitch?my imaginary Mischa goads.Then go back. Let him inside you again. Be his whore again. His wife. His toy.
Inhaling sharply, I force myself to focus. Luckily, the man isn’t paying the doorway any attention. He doesn’t see me creep between the sliver of open space, hefting the brick even higher. A single question crosses my mind: Could I really hit a stranger?
Kill him?
Yes…
No?
But as Ama said, Robert owns this building. Anyone here works first and foremost for him and the Winthorps. So I shut off the part of my brain urging me to retreat and count to three.
One…
Two…
Just as I tense to spring forward, the man turns and strolls up a concrete path in the opposite direction, still whistling. I give myself only seconds to recognize the change in fate before I shoulder the door open fully and beckon Ama through it.
The bracing night air greets us like a slap, cold and unforgiving. My bare feet register hard pavement beneath them, and the only real source of light comes from an orange bulb jutting above the door.
At least the man is gone from view—for now.
Beyond the narrow exit, a parking lot stretches across the entire width of a massive brick building. As Ama claimed, it’s grand enough to be a hotel—but a reclusive one, used only by the Winthorps, I suspect.
Looming shapes betray a few vehicles. The nearest one is a massive white van. It’s only as I race toward it that I realize I still have the brick in my grasp. In the darkness, I notice Ama eyeing it, and she clutches her son even tighter to her chest.
“Shh, my darling,” she soothes as he starts to whimper. “Shh… Everything is fine—”
“We have to get out of here.” I approach the van and tug on the first door I can reach. “Shit!”
It’s locked. Just as I spot a car a few yards away, that guttural whistle returns.
“Damn it,” I hiss. “We need to find—”
“Over here.” Ama waves frantically from the other side of the van. “I think I’ve opened it!”
Sure enough, I circle around and find her propping open the door to the front seat with her hip.
