The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(38)

With a locked door separating me from Riley, I feel safer than I have in hours. I clench my eyes shut and lean my head against the wood, and I have to dig my teeth into my lower lip to keep from sobbing out loud. All the fear and nerves and anxiety bubble up inside me, and I curl my hands into fists. This pulls the mangled skin on my knuckles and makes the torn cuticles around my fingernails sting, reminding me why I’m here in the first place. I lower my hands and take two shaky breaths.

There isn’t a mirror hanging on the wall over the sink, just empty white space. It’s probably better, I think, as I switch the faucet on and off. I don’t want to know what I look like after spending the night in a bloody, smoky basement. I check over my shoulder again and again to make sure the bathtub behind me stays empty. With my back to it, I find myself picturing Brooklyn sitting inside, blood and muddy water streaming from her hair.

It takes a while for water to spurt out of the faucet, and this time it’s not muddy and thick, just a little brown. I run the water over my hands, cringing when it hits the skin at my knuckles and around my fingernails.

There’s a hair tie next to the faucet, a pink one with a strand of brown hair curled around it. I flick it to the floor, wondering if there’s a single room in this house Riley hasn’t been. I put my hands back below the water, and, after a moment, it actually feels good. I close my eyes, keeping my hands below the stream until the cold turns them numb.

I turn the faucet off and open my eyes again, glancing back down at the sink just as a cicada pokes its head from the drain. I choke down a scream and stumble back so quickly that my feet bang against the tub and I have to grab hold of the wall to keep myself from falling inside. The cicada crawls out of the drain and into the sink, wings spreading.

Someone bangs on the door. “Sofia! Hurry, we need your help.”

Straightening, I unlock the door and pull it open, one eye on the cicada inching across the counter as I slip into the hallway. My skin tingles when I pull the door shut behind me.

“Watch your head,” Alexis says, and I duck out of the way as she slides a ladder from the door in the ceiling. Behind her, Grace and Riley drag Brooklyn down the hallway by her arms. I watch her for signs that she’s starting to wake, but she doesn’t move.

Riley stops at the foot of the ladder. She lets go of Brooklyn’s arm, and there’s a sick thud as it drops to the floor.

“Sof, you’ll have to hold her around her chest and go up backward,” Riley says, nodding toward the attic. “Then Grace and I can each take a leg.”

“You want to take her to the attic?” I ask. The attic is dark—darker than the basement or the hall next to the kitchen. I doubt there are any windows.

“The basement was getting too smoky,” Riley says, wrinkling her nose. “And the attic has a good lock, so there’s no chance she’ll get away again. Lexie, why don’t you run downstairs and get the candles? It’ll give us some light.”

Obedient as ever, Alexis nods. Her bare feet slap against the floor as she heads down the hallway. Riley takes one of Brooklyn’s legs and Grace shuffles forward, doing the same.

“Sof,” Riley says, nodding at Brooklyn’s chest. “We need your help.”

Reluctantly, I slide my arms around Brooklyn’s torso and lift her off the ground. My hands tighten around her chest, and I feel the faint thump thump of her heartbeat just below her rib cage. Relief floods through me. She’s alive.

The three of us slowly make our way up the stairs, stopping every few seconds to redistribute Brooklyn’s weight among us. The attic stairs are too steep to go up backward without holding on to anything, so I keep one arm wrapped around Brooklyn’s chest and the other hooked over the rickety railing attached to the ladder. Brooklyn isn’t heavy, but her body still threatens to slip from my grip.

Finally, we make it into the attic. Raw wooden beams and pink insulation form the walls, and the ceiling angles sharply upward. Stacks of faded Vogue magazines sit in the corners, next to Ziploc bags filled with nail polish bottles and an old hair straightener. Empty beer and wine bottles line an entire wall of the attic, arranged by height.

“What is all this?” I ask, panting as we drag Brooklyn off the ladder and onto the unfinished attic floor. Riley glances up and shrugs.

“I come here on my own sometimes,” she says. “Just to get away from home.”

From the look of things, she comes here all the time. I keep my head ducked until we get Brooklyn to the center of the room, where a thick wooden beam juts up from the floor. Then I lean against another wooden beam, exhausted from my climb up the stairs. The tiny circular window on the far wall looks out over the main street.

I steal a glance out the window, still hoping Josh got my text message and he’s on his way now. But the street is empty, and steely black clouds cover the moon, bathing everything in darkness.

“Grace, get me that rope,” Riley says, pointing to a metal toolbox next to the wall. Next to the toolbox is the bright yellow nail gun she used to nail the bathroom window shut earlier. I stare down at it, wondering when she brought it up here.

Riley positions Brooklyn against the beam, and when Grace hands her the rope, she begins winding it around Brooklyn’s body until there’s a thick layer of rope binding Brooklyn in place. Her head lolls forward, and her chin rests against her chest.

“There,” Riley says, knotting the rope behind Brooklyn. “That should hold her.”