Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Terrence hesitates as Malcolm takes my arm. I try to struggle but his grip is iron hard and his face is deadly serious. I want to say something to Terrence—tell him I understand why he’s doing this, but it’s a mistake, it’s a huge mistake, if only he’d talk to Emilio about his problems then he might not need to go down this route—but it’s too late. The big man sighs and hangs his head and turns away. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he lopes down onto the beach, trudging along.
I’m dragged indoors.
“None of the houses near here have actual basements.” Malcolm sounds like he’s giving me a tour. “The soil this close to the beach is way too sandy to dig down deep, not like your Calico House further inland. Instead, they lay down concrete and build on top, leaving this void below as a sort of buffer between the living quarters and the flood waters. When this island’s under water, this space will flood, but the upstairs might survive.”
I want to tell him I fucking know that, you dweeb, but can’t.
“Fortunately for my purposes, whoever put this house in also put in a very convenient room in the back.” He takes me through a garage packed with boxes stacked on top of each other. I catch glimpses of beer, wine, whiskey. He yanks me in through a door at the far end and my breath comes in faster, hitching up my chest.
It’s the room Lesley described. There’s a cot on the right, a bucket in the corner, and a drain in the very middle. It’s stained and rusted dark brown, like blood, but I think it’s probably just from the salty ocean air. This place must’ve been intended to clean floodwater out in the event of a major storm, but the Cask guys use it like a fucking torture dungeon.
The TV mounted in the corner plays an episode of Rugrats.
Malcolm shoves me onto the cot and takes off my gag. I sigh and lick my dry lips, glaring at him as he steps back. I want to scream at him, but what will that accomplish?
“Can you please untie my wrists?” I ask, barely holding back all the nasty things I want to call him.
“I would if it were up to me, but I have orders from above.” His serious face darkens and he glances at the door. His voice drops nearly to a whisper. “There’s someone here who wants to talk to you. Listen, Kaye, I just wanted to say, this wasn’t my idea. Even I can tell this shit’s going too far, but he’s panicking. Whatever Emilio did really stirred him up.”
“Who’s here? Who wants to talk to me?”
He grimaces and walks to the door. “You’ll see. I’m just saying, this wasn’t my decision. That’s all.” It’s like he’s trying to find absolution, and if he expects to get any from me, he shouldn’t even bother. He hurt my friend, convinced Terrence to become a traitor, and now he’s throwing me to the wolves. Screw that guy.
Malcolm disappears out the door. He leaves it ajar behind him, and I stand, hesitantly moving toward it. I could run, make a break for it. Saint Parras is crazy, but it’s still a legitimate school. Even here, a girl running around screaming about getting kidnapped will raise some eyebrows.
But where would I go like this? The gag’s gone, but my wrists are still tied behind my back, and Terrence did a good job on the knots. They’re tight, but not painful. I pace next to the cot, trying to decide what the hell I’m going to do, replaying the last hour in my head.
Terrence found me wandering the beach. I thought he’d been sent by Emilio to bring me back, but when he grabbed me and wrenched my wrists behind my back, apologizing the whole time, and shoved the gag into my mouth, I realized something worse was happening. In my panic over this new twist, I forgot about what I overheard in Dean Wotherspoon’s townhouse.
But now it’s coming back.
Footsteps echo nearby and the door creaks open. I look over and step back, heart racing, as the dean himself steps into the room. He’s sweating and looks tired, like he hasn’t slept for ages. His dress shirt is dark under his arms and his khakis are rolled at the ankles. His flip-flops slap against the concrete as he steps into the room and stares at me.
“I thought you’d look more like her.” He frowns at me and I keep backing away until I bump against the wall. “But you don’t, do you?”
This man murdered my sister.
This is him, the man I came here for, the real villain in my story, and I don’t know what to do. I’m shaking, trembling. He killed my sister and now he’s the reason I’m stuck in this place with my wrists tied behind my back.