The Writing Retreat(93)

I went stealthily over to the sleeping figure. I thought suddenly of a scene from my book: the horrific ghost standing over young Daphne in her bed.

Chitra’s face looked young in sleep. Her first curled up under her chin as if she were pondering something. I felt a sudden, startling rush of affection for her. There was a framed picture on the nightstand and I picked it up. I could just make out two figures: the one on the left was Chitra, on the right was her daughter. I wondered what she was sick with. How Chitra must be so desperate to continue to protect Roza and Taylor.

If I wanted to, I could slip the knife right into her throat. Or I could hold a pillow over her face, pressing down with all my weight.

But even in this survival mode, I couldn’t imagine actually doing it.

I crept out and softly closed the door.

The next door was locked. This was it. I tapped at the door with my finger. There was movement on the other side. A gentle tapping came at the bottom of the door. Two golden, U-shaped hair pins slid out onto the wooden floor.

This old trick. Had Yana been watching Keira and me, working at the door to the office? Or was this something she expected everyone to know?

I set down the knife and picked up the pins. I heard Keira’s voice, even though she was long gone. She must be at the convent, or maybe she was already at a police station, wrapped in one of those silver space blankets.

But it was harder without her there; it seemed to take hours. Finally, when the quality of the moonlight began to change, to fade, I heard a tiny popping sound. The doorknob turned.

Barely glancing at me, Yana slipped out and strode past, dressed in boots and a coat, carrying a tote bag. I picked up the knife and followed her down the stairs to the kitchen. In the gleaming rays of dawn, she grabbed items from the cupboards and stuffed them into the bag. Peanut butter. Soup.

She looked at me, finally. “Where is your coat?” Her eyes swept over me, her mouth tight, like a disapproving mother. She didn’t blink at the knife in my hand.

“In the library.”

“Get it.” She returned to her task.

“Yana,” I said, “we have to get Wren first.”

“No time.” She struggled to open the kitchen door to the backyard. It was blocked by that packed snow.

“I’m not leaving without her.”

Yana gave up and went to the basement steps. I followed her down. At the bottom she hurried to the back door.

“Wait.” I grabbed her shoulder, hard. “Stop.”

She turned, her pale face drawn, her sea-gray eyes dull. I wanted to ask her so much. What had happened between her and Roza? Why had she stayed on for so many years? When and why had she decided to help Keira and me? But there wasn’t time.

“The snowmobile’s gone,” I said. “The cars will get stuck in the snow.”

“I’ll hide.”

“In the woods?” My arm dropped. “You’re going to freeze.”

“Keira left, yes? To get help?”

“Yes.”

“Then the police will come soon.” She turned.

“The code,” I said quickly. “What’s the code to Wren’s cell?”

She rattled off the numbers: 1-2-1-4-8-3.

I repeated it. Apparently, Mila had died on December 14, 1983.

“Hey,” she called over her shoulder as I backed away. “I’ll wait by the garage. Okay? If you don’t come, I will leave.” Before I could answer, she was gone.

I hurried through the doorway into the cell. The rancid smell of the overfilled toilet was even worse now that I’d spent a few hours away from it. At first glance I didn’t see Wren and panic speared me. Had they moved her? Was she bound up like a mummy on the floor of Taylor’s room?

But no. There she was. Just a slight bump on the mattress.

I typed the password into the panel. It flashed red. Shit.

I typed it again. A red flash and an annoyed beep. Wren stirred.

December 13th, right? Why wasn’t it opening? Had Yana lied?

Wren sat up, rubbing her eyes. When she saw me, she flew to the door and grabbed the bars. “Get me out of here!” The angry scratches across her cheek moved with every word.

“I’m trying.” I typed in the number again. Two loud beeps this time. Was it going to lock me out?

Wren was saying something but I said, clearly, “Shut up.”

And she did. I waited, sinking back down into my body. I willed my mind blank.

December 14th.

The panel flashed green and the door clicked. I pulled Wren out. As we hurried into the basement, my brain calculated. I couldn’t take her outside. If I gave her my coat, then I—or both of us—would freeze to death. I opened the door. Wren waited behind me and cursed when I pushed her away from the frosty air.

“We’re going to make it look like we left,” I said.

BOOM.

A shot went off. We both jumped.

Another shot. Wren clung to me, sobbing into my shoulder. Someone was shouting in the kitchen.

I pulled us back into the dungeon, then into the surveillance room. The blank monitors reflected our movements. I opened the door to the tunnel, half expecting to see Roza looming like a vampire. But it was empty. We hurried up the rickety spiral staircase. I held the knife out in front of me, willing myself not to trip and fall onto it.

We burst out of the wardrobe. If Roza was there, in her room, she would see us.