The Merciless (The Merciless #1)(52)

“Jesus. Fuck!” she screams, sitting. Fire crackles around us, and the smoke is so thick I can barely make out Brooklyn’s face. “Come here,” she says to me. “Hurry!”

I move toward her so she can untie the ropes at my wrists. The fire grows around us. Between Brooklyn’s bloody hands and the heat of the fire making us sweat, the rope is slick and hard for her to handle. Twice, it slips through Brooklyn’s fingers.

Fear beats at my skull. We’re not going to make it, I think. But then Brooklyn tugs the knots around my wrists loose, and I’m free.

I help her untie the ropes around my ankles, then stumble to my feet, not entirely sure how long the floor will hold. Fire moves over the walls and eats the wood. My eyes sting. I blink, but I can’t clear the smoke away. Tears stream down my cheeks. My terror hardens into determination. I’m not dying here. I refuse to die here.

We make it to the next floor seconds before the fire leaps to the top rung of the ladder. Brooklyn doubles over, coughing so hard I worry she’ll vomit.

“You can’t stop.” I grab her arm and pull her toward the stairs. My heart beats in my ears, counting every second that passes. The fire is traveling too fast. It’s chasing at our heels, blocking every exit. I’m not sure how much time we have left.

Smoke billows around us, filling my lungs. I pull my shirt over my face, but it doesn’t help. My chest aches for air, but every breath I take is toxic. I start to choke, and then I can’t stop. My entire body shakes with coughing. Brooklyn straightens and pushes herself down the steps. I slide her arm over my shoulder to help her.

We make our way to the first floor and down the hall. When we turn the corner, relief floods my body. The door hangs open. I start to run.

The stairs cave in with a crash like thunder, and the smoke is so thick I can barely see. I tighten my arm around Brooklyn and push myself forward. We cross the front porch and make our way down the stairs.

I drop to my knees on the ground, and Brooklyn collapses next to me. For a moment I just rest my forehead against the cool grass, gulping down fresh air. Behind us, the fire licks and crackles and spits. Listening to it, I sit back up and look around.

The sidewalk and road are empty. Riley and Grace are long gone. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat as I picture them stumbling out of the house, ignoring my screams. But I can’t think of that now. We don’t have a lot of time. This part of the neighborhood might be abandoned, but eventually the smoke will stretch high enough that someone will see and call the police. And then . . .

I turn to Brooklyn, surprised to see she’s already watching me. Her black eyes reflect the light of the fire. She pushes herself to her feet and offers me her hand. Once I’m standing, she pulls me close to her and leans in to whisper in my ear.

“Tell no one.” Her breath smells like blood and smoke. She steps away from me, then nods once. Without another word, she starts to limp away.

For a long moment I stand there, watching the house burn. I laugh out loud, and the sound is so shocking and wonderful that my eyes well with tears. I didn’t die. It’s over. I’m free.

The fire moves through the house like a living thing—wild and desperate and hungry. By the time it’s done, all the evidence of last night will be destroyed. I think about what Brooklyn said—tell no one. If we go to the cops, it’ll be her word against Riley’s.

I swallow and turn away from the fire. Then I head down the sidewalk, toward home.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


My front door creaks open, and I step into the hallway, listening. Silence. Mom isn’t out of bed yet. I hold the knob to keep it from clicking and ease the door closed without a sound. I slip my sneakers off and carry them up the stairs so she won’t hear my footsteps on the carpet.

I spent the entire walk home debating what I would tell my mom. I want to blurt out the whole story, but Brooklyn’s words echo through my head, warning me. Tell no one. Besides, if I tell her, she’ll just call the cops, and they’ll ask questions I’m not sure how to answer. Best to just pretend nothing happened.

I make my way to the bathroom and turn the shower on as hot as it will go. I strip down, and my clothes fall to the floor in a heap of blood and smoke and sweat. I shiver as I stare down at the faded pockets of my jeans, then kick them away from me. I should burn them.

Turning this thought over in my head, I step into the shower—gasping when the hot water hits me. It’s painful at first, but as the water runs over my skin, I start to relax. It stings the raw patches of my arms where the ropes rubbed my wrists, and the mangled cuts around my knuckles burn as water soaks the dead skin, washing away clotted blood and dirt. I tilt my head back and fill my mouth with water, then spit it out to get the blood off my teeth and tongue. The water circling the drain is stained a deep, muddy red. I watch it slip away, feeling the horrors of the night disappearing down the drain with it.

Nothing happened, I remind myself. It was a nightmare, that’s all.

Somewhere in the house a door opens, then shuts. I freeze. I wrap my fingers around the shower curtain, trying to remember whether I locked the front door.

“Sofia?” my mom calls. “Are you up already?”

I shut off the shower and hurriedly dry myself off. I don’t remember ever feeling so relieved to hear my mother’s voice.

“Just taking a shower.” I duck out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, where I quickly change into fresh clothes. I grab a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and my faded gray hooded sweatshirt. Since burning them isn’t really an option, I roll my dirty clothes into a ball and shove them all the way to the bottom of the trash can beneath my desk.