Chapter 25
twenty-five
-Brynn-
As soon as I’m sure I’ve covered my tracks, I grab Cynthia’s purse, then get into the next bedroom and take Samuel out of the closet. “It’s okay now. You’re safe with me. I’m taking you someplace where good people will take care of you. Help you find your parents.”
I lead him out of the room, but before we leave the house, I ask him to close his eyes. I don’t want him to see my car—at least not the exterior of my car and tip off the cops about searching for a gray Honda.
Odds are slim that he even knows what brand it is.
Same with giving them a proper description of me or the place he’s been.
But I still have to try and cover my tracks, even though I’m sure when they find Cynthia, she’ll give them my description.
It’s not like they don’t already have it, but I’m not big enough just yet for them to send in the cavalry.
Killing someone would probably have the police issue a national manhunt. But killing a proven child abuser will send me to the bottom of their priority list, especially after I return the kid.
“Sam, I need you to help me play a game. Think you can do that for me?”
“Sure! What kind of game?” He asks, eager—just like a kid should be. I’m so glad they haven’t taken that from him yet, because the mental scars that I know lie beneath his smile are unimaginable.
“I’m going to leave you in front of a building, and I need you to count to ten before you go inside. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” he nods with excitement, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10!” he says the numbers in a rush.
“Great. Once you finish counting, you go inside to the people there... aaaaannnnd... you get to eat the rest of this pack,” I say, throwing him a Pop-Tart from a box I bought earlier while I was tailing Cynthia.
“Yay!” he shouts, already stuffing the Pop-Tart in his mouth.
I know it’s basically the worst thing to feed a kid.
But that’s all I have right now, and he’s starving.
I don’t want to leave him alone in the car to go get him something, and I can’t walk into a store and risk showing my face around him.
He’ll be all over the news in a couple of days.
Besides, I’m sure the cops will give him something to eat before they track down his parents. I wish I could drop him right at their doorstep, but there’s no reply from 404 yet, so I don’t know who they are.
“Okay, then we have a deal, but you have to pinky promise me something first,” I stretch my hand back, and he hooks his pinkie without hesitation. “You can’t tell the people in there about me. Not yet. Not until it’s been night and morning again.”
“I promise. I’ll just tell them I forgot,” he says, and he sounds clever enough to pull it off for a while. I’m sure they’ll get the truth out of him by tomorrow, but I think they will be more interested in what he has to say about Cynthia and her boyfriend than about me.
First, they’ll want to find out from him a way to track them down. If they even find Cynthia in time. I promised I’d let her live... then. Didn’t promise her she wouldn’t rot in prison or starve to death.
I park the car, a few streets away, picking a spot with no cameras. Then put the cap back on and take the boy right in front of the police station, after making sure the coast is clear.
He does exactly what I told him—counts to ten, then goes inside, while I watch from a distance to make sure someone sees him.
It takes more than a couple of minutes before a few officer’s step outside, scanning the area.
If it took them that long to clock a kid walking in there alone, then the idiots won't find shit.
I disappear as soon as they start snooping around and go straight to Cynthia’s place. I use her keys to let myself in. I took her bag just in case I needed anything, and I have a feeling it’ll come in handy.
I find the coat she mentioned hanging next to the door. She was right. The note’s in here.
Motel Avenue, Room 207. October 31st. 12:00 p.m.
Place your weapon, ID and belongings into the box.
Destroy this after reading.
Well, lucky for me. Cynthia is a moron, and she didn’t destroy the note.
But what fucking box are they talking about?
She must’ve had phone instructions, because I searched the place and there’s nothing here that could give me a clue to the rules of the game. Sure, I know bits and pieces from Elias, and I know this is a survival thing, but I would’ve liked more details.
There’s only one place I haven’t searched—the couch. I try to lift it, and damn, this thing is heavy, but I manage to get it up eventually.
I find a black rectangular wooden box with a handle, the size of a large violin.
I inspect it and find Ares’s mark. The same one I bear on my skin.
I swallow the knot piling up in my throat. I can’t let myself go there. Can’t let whatever madness I feel for him stop me. I just take the box and leave for my apartment. It’s been a hard day, and I’m facing an even worse night.
I fight to get even a few hours of sleep, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t close my eyes for more than a minute.
It’s almost 3 a.m. when I check my phone for anything from 404. He hasn’t replied. But there’s a text from Ares.
Ares: Why did you leave?
His guards must’ve informed him I left.
Me: I’m home. Didn’t feel comfortable there without you.
I reply, hoping I’m convincing enough to get him off my back.
Ares: You disobeyed me.
Me: I wasn’t aware that was an order… ??
Him: It was a request.
Him: Which you ignored.
Him: And it will get you punished.
Me: Is that a threat or a promise?
Him: BOTH
Me: I’ll be waiting for you to put them to practice.
Him: Give me two days, my little curse, and I’ll bring every dark fantasy you ever had to life.
I don’t reply mostly because I don’t know what to write back. We don’t have two days. We don’t even have a moment.
And that makes my lack of sleep a chronic condition.
I start Googling everything I can find about the old opera house downtown. I even dig up some old blueprints, but according to the articles, most of the chambers are severely damaged, and some of the walls have been torn down.
Still, I try to memorize as much as I can before morning. Including hidden passages and chambers that could work as a hideout. I don’t know what I’m walking into, so I need all the leverage I can get.
First thing in the morning, I return to the makeup artist and make sure he gets me looking as close to Cynthia as possible, especially since I’ll be carrying her ID.
My guy outdid himself, and the resemblance is so strong this time, it almost disgusts me. But I must get over it because this isn’t about me. This is about my dear Elias.
I go to the motel listed on the note. The place is practically a dump, and I perfectly understand why. No one pays attention to it.
I ask for the key to room 207 at the front desk, and as soon as I give her my name, she hands it over. No questions asked.
I walk into the room and immediately spot a note on the bed, along with a neatly folded stack of clothes. The same kind Elias was wearing when I found his corpse.
Change and take this pill at exactly 13:00.
I inspect the pill. It’s something purple with no markings whatsoever. Then I look at the clock in the room. 12:03 I’ve got almost another hour to burn.
I place the box on the bed next to me. The sword I bought, along with Cynthia’s house keys, phone, and ID, are placed in there.
Then I change into the black cargo pants and a matching T-shirt.
The number twenty-four printed on the front.
Funny since I’m only a few months away from turning twenty-four—if I live to see that day.
This is the most agonizing hour of my life. My pulse is so high I feel like I’m having a heart attack.
I keep checking the mirror to make sure the makeup is still in place. You can’t tell I’m wearing almost a full silicone prosthetic, not even from up close. Maybe more like some heavily caked foundation, but I’m a woman, so no one would think twice.
My wig is in place. Besides, no one looks exactly like in their IDs. It’s like they’re trained to take the worst photo of your life every time you go update the damn thing. And for the file, I just hope 404 already swapped Cynthia’s photo with mine.
I take the pill at exactly the time mentioned on the note. For a while, nothing happens. I pace the length of the room so many times I’m sure the rug’s about to wear through. Then suddenly I feel weak, like I’ve lost control over my own body, and collapse onto the bed.
It’s dark from there on.
I also wake up in total darkness with a cloth bag on my head. Panic surges through me, trying to take it off, but my hands or feet won’t move. I fidget against the restraints for a few moments before I realize there’s someone else next to me.
“Who’s there?” I ask, feeling dizzy from the pill, or probably from the motion, because we’re definitely in a moving vehicle.
“The fucking Sandman, who do you think?” snaps an annoyed male voice I don’t recognize.
“I think they’re taking us there,” another male voice says, this one much calmer. “To the game. We started moving half an hour ago.”
So, we should be close.
I don’t say it out loud, though, not ready to divulge that I know anything. But the motel is only about a half-hour's drive from the opera house.
“Are you all contenders?” I ask, trying to figure out if they’re in the same situation as me, or if they’re just guards. I still can’t see a damn thing.
“What do you think?” The same annoyed voice bites back. “We’re all in this for survival. But maybe I should make it easier and start killing your asses right now.”
“I’ll make you swallow your words along with your tongue,” another male voice growls, and it quickly devolves into a blind fight where everyone is randomly kicking and screaming, until one of the guards starts yelling for everyone to calm down or get shot.
Strangely enough, we continue to drive for another half-hour, and I can’t figure out why it takes so long to reach the opera.
But finally, I can hear a van door slide open, and someone hauls me to my feet.
We’re all lined up—I can tell from the guards' commands. And I can’t help but notice a familiar scent—like mold, vomit, and rancid cheese, all mixed together.
I know that smell.
But before I can piece my thoughts together, someone yanks the hood off my head. And I realize we’re not at the opera.
The place is something out of my nightmares. Something born out of my greatest fears.
Elmbrook Sanatorium.