The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(39)

“We left the backpack downstairs,” Grace says. She hovers near the ladder, one hand still gripping the wooden railing. “I’ll get it.”

Grace climbs down the ladder. Once her head is out of view, Riley turns to me, but before she can say a word, a sharp, clear ringing cuts through the house. The doorbell. Riley’s face hardens. My heart jumps in my chest—Josh.

Riley races to the ladder and starts to the second floor, going so fast the rickety wood creaks and groans beneath her weight. I head for the ladder to follow her, but Riley jumps the rest of the way down. She grabs the bottom of the ladder and starts sliding it back into place.

“Watch her,” she yells up at me.

“Wait!” I cry out as Riley pushes the ladder up. The door closes, and there’s a clicking sound as it locks into place. “Riley!” I shout, banging on the floor. I work the lever to get the ladder to release, but it holds, tight. The doorbell rings again. Heavy footsteps race down the stairs.

Shit, I think to myself. She did this on purpose. I push myself to my feet and run across the attic to the window. I press my face up to the glass and squint out onto the street. A bright red pickup is parked by the side of the road. Someone’s in the front seat, his arm resting on the open window.

I recognize the rumpled shirt immediately.

“Charlie!” I slam my hand against the window hard, hoping the glass will shatter. “Charlie!” My voice starts to go hoarse, but I don’t care—I shout anyway. “Look up! Look up!”

The front door swings open downstairs, and low voices sound just below me. If Charlie hears me at all he doesn’t show it. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, then motions impatiently to Josh at the front door. The voices downstairs get louder—it sounds like he and Riley are arguing. I curl my hand into a fist and bang it against the window. The glass shudders, but it doesn’t break.

“Sofia?” The voice is weak and raspy. I stop pounding on the glass and turn around. Brooklyn lifts her head and her eyelids flutter open.

“You’re awake!” I crouch next to Brooklyn, studying her face. She cringes and tries to move her arm, but the rope holds her tight.

“Fuck,” she says, pulling against the rope. “Where am I?”

“Attic.” I crawl over to her and try to pull the ropes away with my hands, but they’re knotted, tightly, behind her back. “We’re locked up here together.” Outside, a car engine roars to life.

“No.” I stand and turn around to face the window. A flash of white cuts across the street as the truck lights turn on. I press my face to the glass just in time to watch the pickup pull away from the house.

“No!” I slam my fist against the wall. Desperate, frustrated tears sting my eyes. “No!” I shout again. “Come back!”

“Sofia?” Brooklyn shifts on the floor, making the rope binding her groan. Too numb to answer her, I slide to the ground, choking back tears.

“Josh and Charlie were here,” I explain. “But they’re gone now.”

Brooklyn turns her head to the side. Her eyes sweep across the room, studying the old bottles and dog-eared magazines. She wrinkles her nose. “And Riley and the others? Where are they?”

“Downstairs.”

Brooklyn’s eyes widen. “So we’re alone?”

I nod toward the door behind her. “Yeah, but we’re locked in.”

“Attic doors like that lock automatically, but there’s a trick to get them to release.” Brooklyn motions to the ropes with her chin. “Untie me and I’ll show you.”

I study Riley’s old things as I cross the attic toward Brooklyn. Riley’s porcelain doll sits next to an ancient pink plastic CD player. A new crack cuts between the doll’s eyes, like a scar. I shiver, thoroughly creeped out.

I crouch next to Brooklyn and start working on the knots binding her to the pillar. Behind me, something clicks.

“Shout to the . . . Shout to the . . . Shout to the . . .” The words fill each nook and cranny of the attic, echoing off the exposed beams.

I stand and stumble backward. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s that CD player.” Brooklyn says, studying something behind me. “You must have kicked it.”

“Shout . . . shout . . . shout—”

I turn and grab the CD player, hitting the power button. As soon as the music cuts off I hear something else—scratching. It’s coming from the corner.

“Do you hear that?” I ask, moving toward the noise. It goes silent.

“It’s probably just rats,” Brooklyn says, shifting on the floor. “Sof, come on, you have to untie me.”

“Right.” I shake my head and hurry back over to Brooklyn. “Downstairs,” I say as I pull at her ropes. “In the basement, you said you pushed that teacher off a ladder.”

“Lies,” Brooklyn insists. “Everything I ‘confessed’ was a lie. I thought Riley would let me go if I played her game.”

“I knew it,” I say, and a wave of relief washes over me. I work my fingers around the knot, but I can’t manage to pull it free. Frustrated, I sit back on my heels.

“I need scissors or a knife or . . .” I spot the toolbox under the window and get an idea. I race over to it, and dig around inside for one of the long, slightly crooked nails. “This might work.”