Chapter 87
eighty-seven
MAVERICK
“What do you think about red and blue? Too patriotic? Yeah, you’re right.
Maybe red and yellow.” Patrick goes on, debating wedding colors with himself while I ice my temple.
He apologized when I woke up, saying that he was sorry, and he wished I didn’t make him hit me again.
He even took the chains off to prove how sorry he was.
Now we’re planning our wedding. Or he’s planning, and I’m trying to figure out how to get the fuck out of here.
Which would be a lot easier if he didn’t decide to knock me out in the knife room.
Now I’m sitting on the couch surrounded by knives with a delusional psychopath looking at Pinterest boards on his phone while flipping Pamela around in his other hand.
Like I need to be reminded of how good he is with a knife.
“What about a destination wedding? Maybe Pittsburgh?”
He must have hit me harder than I thought. There’s no way he thinks Pittsburgh is a destination wedding location. Actually, this man thinks I’m going to willingly marry him and named his knives after the women in “Mambo No. 5”. He definitely thinks Pittsburgh is the Aruba of America.
“Do you hear that?” he asks me. I hold my breath, hoping it’s someone at the door I can get to help me, but I hear nothing. “Huh. I thought I heard sirens.”
It takes what little self-control I have left to not react.
Sirens are good. Sirens mean emergency services.
But if they’re that faint, they can’t be heading here.
This house is far back from the road, and if they were heading here, I would hear them by now.
There’s still nothing but Patrick’s mouth breathing.
“Oh! What about a donut wall?”
I consider pretending to faint just to make him stop, but I’m not sure it would, and I don’t want to risk being put back in the chains. Or having another meeting with Pamela.
I wonder if I can get into the basement and check for Jo and Ezra. Although I’m not as confident they’re there. There’s been no noises, and Patrick never seems concerned if I wander near the door. Maybe because of the padlock on it, or because he knows there’s not much I can do about it.
He hasn’t drugged me again. I’m pretty sure the drugs were to make me compliant, not unconscious.
Apparently, the handle of a knife has the same effect, since I haven’t moved or spoken.
Or maybe it’s this heaviness in the air that I can’t place.
Almost like we’ve come to the end of something.
I can’t help feeling like this is it for me.
I won’t marry Patrick. I’d rather die. Leaving Ezra and Jo kills me, but I’m not strong enough to survive a marriage to a murderer.
I feel the tears stinging in my eyes as I try to hold them back.
I’ll never be able to apologize to Jo for how I reacted or tell Ezra how much I’ve always loved him.
I love them both so much, my heart aches at not knowing where they are.
They’re alive though. I know that much from experience.
If either of them were dead, I would feel it.
The same way I knew Ezra was alive all these years because my heart just knew.
I lean my head back against the couch. Patrick is going on about the merits of having two photographers when there’s a sound so loud it makes the whole house shake. Monica and Rita fall off the wall, and Patrick jumps up to comfort them.
“It’s okay, my beauties. Daddy’s got you,” he murmurs, caressing their handles and replacing them on their stands.
He turns to me, face hard and unreadable.
“I need to get you to safety, doll. Let’s go.
” I don’t get time to respond before he’s pulling me by my elbow and down the stairs.
I stumble after him, dizzy from the head wound he gave me.
I’m in front of the basement door, watching him fumble with the key before I realize where I’m standing.
“What’s going on?” I ask him, looking towards the front door and wondering if I can make it there before he can catch me. Whatever is making that noise outside is preferable to this house.
“I’ll find out, doll. I promise,” Patrick says. I barely have time to turn back around before I’m shoved onto the basement steps, and the door is slammed in my face. I catch myself on the railing just in time to prevent falling down the stairs and probably breaking my neck.
I pound on the door with my fists. “Let me out!” I scream over and over until my fists ache and my throat is sore, but there’s no response.
Patrick probably ran to slice and dice whoever made the house shake.
Instead of fruitlessly begging for my release, I find the light switch and make my way downstairs.
I freeze at the bottom. When I lived here, the basement was just storage and a wine vault.
Which I guess is also storage, just fancy.
Now there’s an orange shag carpet and brown plaid couch set that looks straight from the seventies.
That’s not the alarming part. The ceiling is bowing in like the idiot removed the load-bearing beams because it didn’t fit his aesthetic.
Another deafening boom sounds, and the house shakes worse than the first time.
That was definitely an explosion and closer.
I’m going to be crushed under this fucking nightmare house if they keep going off.
I know I can’t get back out of the door I came in.
My dad sealed the outside door years ago and cemented over it, so that isn’t an option.
I make my way to the far side of the basement where the wine vault still is.
My dad had a bank vault door installed to protect his precious vintages.
“Should have put a bank vault door on all his secrets,” I mutter to myself as I examine the door.
It’s old, like zero electricity needed old.
There’s just a large wheel in the middle that has to be turned in a certain way.
Judging by the fact it’s still locked, I don’t think Patrick has figured it out.
I grip the wheel and turn. Two full turns to the right.
February, my dad’s birthday. Eight full turns to the left.
August, my mom’s birthday. One full turn to the right.
January, my birthday. I didn’t put it together before reading my dad’s journal.
Eva’s birthday is in June, but Abigail’s, the mom I wish I had the chance to know, was born in August. Even more proof my dad never got over my mom.
I wish he wasn’t dead to tell me about her, but he really got the consequences of his actions.
Maybe if I survive this, I can ask Harrison to look for someone who knew her that would be willing to tell me about her.
The lock clicks open, and I pull the door. It’s heavy and loud, but I used to sneak down here and drink, and I know how to get it open quietly. Although, I’m sure Patrick is too occupied to come down here and stop me.
It’s cool in here, and the lights are dim when I switch them on.
Can’t have any UV damaging the labels or the wine.
The room is about as big as a small studio apartment with the walls lined with row after row of expensive wine.
In the center is a bar table with four stools and a fake battery-powered candle.
The entire room is a cement box. There are no windows, and the door is the only way out.
I’m hoping that whatever hell Patrick has brought upon himself doesn’t cause the house to cave in on my head, but if it does, I might be safe in here.
I close the door so there’s only a crack left.
I don’t want it to close all the way because it can only be opened from the outside.
Well, it can only be opened from the outside because I have no idea where the key to the inside is.
I grab a bottle of red, the label entirely in French, find the corkscrew, and pop out the cork. I don’t bother to let it breathe before taking a long swig. It tastes like red wine. I don’t care what anyone says. Wine tastes like wine, no matter how expensive it is.
I barely get the bottle to my mouth for a second drink when a third explosion sounds and the house shakes violently. There’s a loud crack and crashing so I think my hearing might be permanently damaged. I know what happened. Exactly what I thought would happen.
The house has fallen on my head.