The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(22)

I nod woodenly. None of their supplies are too terrible, aside from the knife. Maybe they’ll just throw some water at Brooklyn and chant for a while. They probably only brought the knife to freak her out—punishment for screwing around with Josh. I breathe in deeply, trying to calm my nerves. This could still be okay.

But then I glance up, meeting Brooklyn’s red-rimmed eyes. Her shoulders rise and fall in silent sobs and sweat, and tears mingle with her eyeliner, sending thick black lines streaming down her face. This isn’t a prank. Riley didn’t say she wanted to punish Brooklyn—she said she wanted to save her, and for some reason that involves a knife and holding a girl prisoner in the basement.

“I can’t do this,” I say. I ease my foot off the floor and move it behind me, slowly backing toward the staircase. My legs are so numb I worry I might collapse. “I have to go.”

I turn and stumble toward the staircase without waiting for Riley to answer. When I reach the concrete wall, I break into a run, my shoes slipping against the steps. My brain is moving too quickly, telling me I’m overreacting, that nothing’s wrong. At the same time my palms start to sweat and my knees shake. My body wants to get as far away from here as possible.

Once I’m through the basement door, time speeds up. My heart pounds in my ears, making it impossible to think. I tear through the kitchen, moving so quickly I smack an arm against the doorframe and stumble into the hall, landing hard on my knees. Pain shoots up my legs. But I grit my teeth and push myself to my feet and run.

The shadows in the living room seem to reach for me as I race past. I glance outside when I get to the front door, but Grace isn’t on the porch anymore. I don’t stop to think about where she might’ve gone. My hands tremble so badly the doorknob rattles as I work the lock, but, finally, my fingers manage to twist the deadbolt. I turn the knob and pull.

The door doesn’t budge. I pull harder. The knob turns easily, but the door itself stays firmly shut. Finally, I glance up. There’s a lock screwed into the doorframe, held shut with a heavy, metal padlock.

“Shit.” My voice is barely a whisper, but it seems to boom around me. I think of what Riley said when I saw the new doorknob. Can never be too careful.

I stumble back down the hall, pulling open the first door I see. It’s a bedroom, with two windows on the far wall. I race across the room and feel for the edge of the window with my fingers. My hand brushes against metal. My heart sinks.

Nails line the window frame, sealing it shut. Some are driven deep into the wood, and some are long and crooked, jutting awkwardly out of the frame. A single bent nail lies on the sill, next to a wobbly sketch of a heart that someone etched into the wood.

For a long moment I just stare at the nails, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating or dissolving into tears. Riley isn’t crazy enough to lock us all in here, to nail the windows shut so we can’t leave. But even as this thought occurs to me, I know it’s exactly what she’s done. I’m trapped here with her—we all are.

My legs shake as I move backward. I start opening doors at random, desperately searching for an exit Riley might have missed. My breathing gets more ragged as I run from one empty room to another. I claw at the nails in the windowsills until my fingers bleed, but they don’t budge. Riley must’ve used a nail gun.

Finally I stumble into a bathroom. There’s only one window here, the kind you crank with a lever to open. There aren’t nails sticking out of the frame. I release a shaky, desperate sob.

I grip the lever with both hands. The plastic notch digs into my skin as I yank it around and around. The window jerks and starts, opening at an angle and letting cold air seep into the bathroom. Clouds hide the moon, leaving the night perfectly dark. Cicadas buzz in the grass.

I stop cranking once there’s a gap wide enough for me to climb through. The cicadas sound louder, but maybe that’s just because my heartbeat has slowed. I’m going to make it. I’m going to get out of here, and I’m going to call the cops. Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, I lean forward, knuckles white as I wrap my fingers around the sill.

A hand slaps the outside of the glass, slamming the window shut on my fingers.

Bright, hot pain rips through my hands. I cry out and try to pull away, but the window pins my fingers in place. The clouds move, bathing Riley in moonlight.

She studies me with those gray eyes, then leans into the window with her shoulder, pressing it against my fingers.

“Can’t let you leave now, Sof.” Riley moves away from the glass, and the window swings open. I snatch my hands away, my breathing ragged. Blood oozes around my knuckles and drips down my wrist, staining the sleeves of my cardigan.

“Clean yourself up,” Riley says. “We’re just getting started.”





CHAPTER EIGHT


I drop to my knees on the cold bathroom floor and fumble for the roll of toilet paper next to the toilet, clumsily mopping up the blood dripping from my fingers. I open my hand, then close it again, testing. Nothing’s broken.

Someone pounds at the door. “Hurry up, Sof.” The wood muffles Riley’s voice. “We’re waiting.”

I take two deep breaths. My lungs burn and my head feels dizzy. It’s just Riley. Riley, who gossiped with me about boys while drinking red wine. Riley, who insisted I eat with her after finding that dead cat. She’s not crazy—she just snapped. The real Riley’s still in there.