Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(54)

Jeb’s dad stands up behind the wooden maze, tinkering with one of the pulleys. His profile looks young and kind—nothing like the bitter, weathered man he was before he died.

Nausea hits me. Jeb brought him back to life in this kinder version, to relive his ideal family moments. It’s sweet, sad, and disturbing.

“Well, he has to be on his way,” Mr. Holt says, and faces me full-on. I stifle a moan. His eyes glow orange, flickering like the lit end of a cigarette. When he blinks, ash falls, tumbling down his face and leaving gray streaks. “This is his favorite game, after all.” He drops marbles into place on one of the ramps. “And he owes me a rematch.”

“You’re just hoping he lets you win this time, Dad.” Jenara giggles. He winks at her, causing embers to crumble down his cheek.

I shudder. “Uh, I have to go.” I back up with both Jen and her dad following.

“But you just got here,” Jen says, her voice more threatening than friendly now.

I bump into something soft and mushy and turn on my heel.

“Cookie?” Jeb’s plump mom smiles up at me and offers a plate piled with treats. Chocolate chip, bloody razor blade, and broken glass appear to be the flavor of the day.

“I don’t belong here,” I whisper, unable to tear my gaze from the deadly snacks.

“No, you don’t,” Mrs. Holt says. “Because we’re here to make him happy. And you’ve made him sad. But we’re going to fix that. Eat a cookie.”

My gut twists. I sidle toward the center of the room as they surround me, the request becoming a hiss: “Yesssss, we insissst. Jussst one cookie . . .”

The diary at my neck releases a blazing red light. Jeb’s pseudo-family leaps away screaming. They land on the floor, a tangled mess of limbs. Pulse hammering, I exit the room and shut them inside, thankful Jeb painted them in their own setting so they can’t cross the threshold.

I press my back against the door. Its glassy chill seeps through the slits in my shirt. The marbles must represent making marble ramps with his father, one of Jeb’s happiest memories. If that was a pleasant scene, I’m terrified to find what’s behind the cigarette-burned door around the next bend.

I’m not sure if it’s determination to find Morpheus or my dark side’s desire to delve deeper into Jeb’s mind, but I move forward.

Using the diary to trigger the latch, I peek inside. A gym with weights, a stationary bike, and a treadmill sit beneath blinking, dim fluorescent lights. There are no occupants, so I step in. A punching bag shaped like an egg hangs a few feet away from a wall of broken mirrors. The front faces me with painted eyes, round cheeks, and a mouth—a creeped-out, nursery rhyme version of Humpty Dumpty.

A hiss comes from the back of the bag. Trembling, I watch as it makes a slow revolution and somehow locks into place in spite of the twisted ropes that wait to unwind.

My breath gusts out of me. It’s Mr. Holt’s face on the other side. Not a flat drawing, but a flesh-and-bone, three-dimensional face, snarling. This is the Mr. Holt I knew: his once handsome features sharpened by anger and discontent, his cheeks hollowed out by too much alcohol and lack of proper nutrition.

His eyes, like the other Mr. Holt’s, are formed of lit cigarette butts.

He scowls. “Trip me again. I dare you, worthless little punk. Make me spill my beer. That’s what you get. Stop crying, dammit. That’s what happens when you leave your toys out. No! Your mom shouldn’t have to pick them up for you. It only makes her share your punishment. It’s your fault she’s bleeding. Your fault.”

The childhood pictures I’ve seen of Jeb’s agonized gaze burn into my brain. This is what he suffered every day. I’m amazed he survived at all. No wonder he always blamed himself for what happened to his mom and sister.

Mr. Holt’s tongue continues to flap, the words degrading and hate-filled.

Something snaps inside me—the part that wants revenge for all he did to the boy I love. I lash out and slap his lips so hard the sound echoes sharply and my hand stings.

The bag spins around slowly. “Hahaha! Was that supposed to hurt? Your baby sister hits harder than you.” Mr. Holt spits out a tooth, some blood, and a stream of obscenities.

I can’t move. I actually left a mark on him . . . I cut his lip and broke a tooth. How many times has Jeb been here, pounding his father’s face? Judging by the bruises and gashes on this bag, he probably lost count. If he felt as unfulfilled as I do right now, it didn’t do him any good.

I rush from the room, my spirit heavy and dismal as I shut the cruel taunts of Mr. Holt behind the door.

Jeb, what have you done to yourself? He’s fallen so far into despair and bitterness, it’s as if he were dead. A vast hopelessness lodges in my soul and strangles all hope.

Legs heavy, I stumble around another twisting curve in the tunnel and reach the third doorway.

“Morpheus!” I shout again, voice cracking. I don’t want to see any more. Jeb’s not the boy I once knew, and I don’t know how to get him back . . .

Worse, I don’t have time to figure it out.

A motorized sound draws me to the door made of bark and willow leaves.

I hesitate. If each door symbolizes what’s behind it, this one has something to do with the willow tree that joins my and Jeb’s backyards. We used to play chess under it as kids. Then when we became a couple, we’d go there to be alone.