Web of Lies (Tangled Web #1)

Prologue

Larken

The muted clumps of dirt and rocks scattering across the lid are almost louder than the pulse slamming in my chest. Almost louder than the breaths coming faster and faster in my lungs. Almost.

He's really burying me.

Underneath layers and pounds of dirt.

I can almost feel every pebble and speck of dirt that covers the top of the crate I'm locked inside. I can't really feel it, the crate is solid, but that doesn't stop my brain from telling me that I've got dirt in my mouth.

Then the bugs will start burrowing through the cracks.

I don't even know where I am. He tied a blindfold tightly over my eyes before he put me into the trunk, and the brief glimpse of the area I got when he yanked it off right before he forced me into the crate, just looked like a bunch of trees. There wasn't a road or path that I could see, no houses, no buildings, no fences, no rock formations; only a thick wall of trees.

The clustered sounds of my burial are quieter now. There's probably at least an inch or two of debris covering me at this point. How deep is this grave? I forgot to pay attention to what the distance might be during the terror of being blindly dropped and settled. It's only been a few minutes, I haven't been in the box long enough to run out of air; but the frantic burning in my lungs isn't convincing.

It takes me a few full minutes to realize that I'm clawing at the lid and walls of the crate. Wyatt cut the zip tie. He must have done it right before he closed the lid. He said something, too. What did he say? I was fighting so hard, I almost missed that he was saying anything at all. I have enough room to move around a little, which helps me calm down, but not much. Having a panic attack in an enclosed, tight space isn't going to help me right now. I need to stay calm.

I can reach above my head far enough to touch the inside of the crate. I'm able to move my arms to the side and in front of my face a few tight inches. I can move, but I'm still trapped. The irony of the situation isn't lost on me. I thought he was trying to keep me safe from Adrian. At least Adrian would have made it quick. Instead of a merciful shot to the head, I'll be dying a very slow death in a hole in the woods. Either way, the bastard's getting what he wanted to begin with.

What did Wyatt say to me? I have to remember. It wasn't a threat. It sounded more like a comfort. But why? Why comfort someone when you're nailing them into their coffin? Considering the source of that comfort, I wouldn't be surprised if he's confused by the definition of the word.

Slowly, I start sliding my hands along the interior of the crate. I've never found a way to unlatch any of the things I’ve been locked inside, but feeling out the inside helps me fight the panic. They've locked me inside a few different things, but neither of them have gone so far as to bury me before.

There's something just below my hips on my right. My fingers brushed against it when I was trying to determine how much room there was between me and the side of the crate. I assume it's a crate. It feels like a wooden crate. For all I know it's an actual coffin, it wouldn't surprise me if it was. If I can just reach it without pushing it away from me...

There! I've got it. It feels like a pen, but it's too short. There's a key chain fob on one end. Carefully, I bring it up over my chest to get a better feel for what it is. The sounds of my burial are so muffled now that I can just barely make out the soft thud of the next shovel-full of dirt covering me. How long until I suffocate? How long before panic causes my heart to stop? Which would be better? Or worse?

That makes me laugh, the sound of it loud as it bounces around the inside of this dark enclosure, my breath pushing back against my face when it hits the solid wall in front of me. In sickness and health, for better or worse, till death do you part. What a joke.

It isn't a pen. It's one of those little key chain flashlights. How kind of Wyatt to provide me with a light so I can watch the slow story of my last days unfold in this space. What a prince.

I put the key ring around my finger and click the button on the end to turn on the light and find that I was right. There is a solid wooden wall about five inches in front of my face. I'm okay right now, but panic is starting to creep up my spine again at the sight of how much space I don't have between me and my box. I'm fairly confident I'll have a heart attack before I run out of air.

I shine the light down towards my feet and point my toes, stretching to see if I can touch the far end. I can't, but I can see that it's just a few inches out of reach. The far side is just as solid as the lid. I move the light up the creases of the crate and up to the topmost corners by my head. There looks like a small spot in the left corner, about the size of the light in my hand. Surely it isn't a hole. It can't be a hole. If it's a hole, then insects and maybe tiny snakes could crawl in here with me. That will most definitely happen before I suffocate, and that's what will give me the heart attack. That cannot be a hole.

There isn't any dirt falling from it, though. None at all. I reach up to run my fingers across and around the small opening. It feels like there's something almost like a coating around the edge of the hole. Oh my god. What if it's an air hole? Maybe he drilled a hole in this thing to keep me from suffocating. How many people have been in this crate before he shut me into it? What if it rains?

I don't think I can handle the thought of what will happen if it rains. I point the light back down to the bottom of the crate, slowly moving it down the lid. There's another spot at the bottom. I must have missed it before. Why would he leave two holes?

I can't hear the dirt falling on top of me anymore. I don't know if it's because he's finished or if it's because I'm so deep in the ground that I can't hear the sound. I click off the light. Seeing death closing in around me, whether from suffocation, drowning, or the probable heart attack, is going to require that I don't kill the batteries.

Maybe I can sleep through it. I let my eyes close against the pitch black of my confinement and force slow breaths in and out of my lungs, trying to be as still and calm as possible. If I lay here long enough, breathing steadily and keeping my mind clear, it will be like when I've been kept in a box before. At least I have room to move a little. At least I can straighten and bend my arms.

No. Nope. Not at all.

I frantically turn the light back on. I can't just lay in the dark and breathe myself to death. I shine the light across the lid again. I thought there was another hole at the bottom. It's possible that I imagined it, but I don't think so. I blink my eyes several times and look all around the lid above my feet. There was definitely a hole there, but I can't see it now.

Movement, small movement, catches my eye and then I realize it wasn't a hole.

Right above my knees, a dark spot the size of a pencil eraser is crawling slowly toward the light.

And my face.

I'm going to share my grave with a spider before I get the chance to die.

Watching the little creature make her way up reminds me of the last time I watched a spider crawl this close to me, and again the irony isn't lost.

It was my wedding day.