Chapter Thirty-Three
Thirty-Three
Margot
I wake in Caine’s bed. How peaceful he looks in the early morning light is at odds with how he parkoured around the mattress in his sleep.
However, he wakes up hungry, so I can’t complain too much about his nocturnal gymnastics.
After being eaten within an inch of my life, I feel slightly more optimistic about the day to come.
Brady picks up Death, and I pray that we never have to call him again.
Gremlin is dropped off at the groomer, ready for a day of endless treats and getting away with murder.
When we reach the haunt, I help Caine with a few things, then settle into the office to check my emails.
Oddly enough, I can’t get my computer to connect to the haunt Wi-Fi, my hotspot, or Caine’s hotspot.
Neither of our phones have service, and no amount of walking around the haunt and turning my phone off and on fixes the problem.
After the second time traipsing around the haunt trying to get signal, I’m over it.
Caine’s ripping up the old tracks for the squish room, and I help him until the sound of metal screeching as it comes loose makes me want to knock myself out with the crowbar.
Caine, however, is in his element, playing ’80s metal on an old CD player he found in one of the boxes from Ronnie’s storage unit while he works.
A headache is building behind my eyeballs; I can’t tell if it’s from the sound of the tracks screeching as they come loose, or hormones.
I chug a bottle of water, pop an ibuprofen, and decide to get ahead of it by dragging the huge beanbag into what we’ve dubbed the mannequin nook for a nap.
Home to an assortment of mannequins and other humanoid props, the nook is a partially enclosed space that’s too big to be called a closet but isn’t secure or private enough to be used as a dressing room.
While I could rest in the office, Caine will be in and out.
All I want to do is put my sweatshirt over my head and see if I can’t power nap away this looming headache.
Twenty, maybe thirty, minutes pass. I float in that vaguely disconcerting space between sleep and wakefulness, the pounding in my head mellowing to a twinge.
Displaced air alerts me to Caine’s presence before he can speak.
Still, when his hand closes around my ankle, giving it a gentle squeeze, I startle.
I wiggle my foot from his grasp. “Still napping.”
Groggy, I wait for his laugh or the thump of him landing beside me on the massive beanbag.
When it doesn’t happen, I lift the edge of the sweatshirt to peek at him.
A few feet beyond the foot of the beanbag, Caine waits.
Holding the foreboding stance universal to horror villains, he’s an intimidating figure.
He’s dressed for the job too, wearing a Michael Myers–esque jumpsuit, balaclava, boots, and a gas mask.
Oh my.
Miraculously, any lingering headache is cured by the sight. He hasn’t broken form, so I’m not about to. Clutching my sweatshirt, I pretend that the man isn’t Caine. That he’s a stranger, a killer. “Oh my god,” I gasp, giving myself over to the role-play. “Please don’t hurt—”
Faster than should be possible, Caine lunges, grabbing my ankle and ripping me off the beanbag. My yelp is genuine as I hit the floor.
Guarantee that’s going to leave an ass bruise.
Even so, I rally. Rolling in his grip, I kick free. He lets me go, almost as if he wasn’t expecting me to thrash that hard. Scrambling to my knees and then feet, I bolt into the mannequins.
He coughs, the sound strange and distorted from the voice modulator in the mask.
I wonder if he thinks I won’t remember that the back wall of the mannequin nook isn’t solid, just movable panels.
The thought makes me smile as I slip between a gaggle of zombies and jump over a fallen Frankenstein’s monster.
Footsteps move closer as I slide one of the panels wide enough for me to fit through.
I don’t look back as I slink into the dark hallway.
Left will take me toward the haunt’s inner rooms; right leads to the lobby, which serves as a staging area for patrons.
Wanting to keep him on his toes, I run for the lobby, since I went deep into the haunt last time.
I skitter into the massive open space and regret it.
I forgot it’s currently home to an assortment of painter’s tarps, five-gallon buckets of paint, and industrial cleaning and painting equipment, including a large metal scaffolding.
There’s a roll-up bay door and a man door on the far wall, both opening up to the staff parking lot.
Beyond the lot wait the field and woods.
Oh.
Being caught and ravished in the sunshine sounds more fun than sliding around on painter’s plastic.
Scared I’ll trip, I don’t look back as I sprint for freedom.
I half crash into the man door, fumbling with the deadbolt.
Goose bumps rise on my arms. He has to be right there, but I can’t look.
Caine’s boots pound dangerously close as I finally get the door unlocked and explode out of the haunt.
Gravel flies as I run across the lot, aiming for the field and welcoming pines beyond it.
Unable to resist, I steal a glance over my shoulder.
Caine’s coming, but I have more of a lead than I expected.
Looks like running with Lauren is actually paying off.
Seeing I have a chance rouses my competitive spirit. Being railed still sounds good, but I think I want to make him work for it more than usual. Besides, I haven’t experienced a chase in the woods with Caine. Pleasure racing through me with each heartbeat, I enter the trees.
How far will I get before he catches me?
How hot and bothered will he be once he does?
Leaping over a fallen tree makes me feel downright athletic.
The scent of pine fills my nose with each deep breath.
Among the trees, my options feel endless, the expanse of nature an aphrodisiac.
Another glance backward shows Caine is gaining but isn’t quite close enough to be a threat yet. Excitement fills me, fueling my flight.
For the first time, I understand why Claire loves the woods so much.
Whether that energy will last if I get a tick remains to be seen.
Caine
The joy of prying metal tracks up is interrupted by my phone ringing. After Margot’s and my inability to get signal earlier, it’s a pleasant surprise. I answer without looking at the caller ID.
“Hello. This is Josiah Reed with Restoration Ministries. May I speak with Marcus Martin, please?” a man asks when I answer. Lunging, I smack the CD player off.
Game time.
“Speakin’.” I shift into the drawl that Margot pretends doesn’t melt her panties, and head for the office. “How are you?”
“Blessed, thank you, sir. And you?” From his manners to barely grown voice, I’d be shocked if Josiah is older than twenty-three.
“Blessed as well.” I don’t have to force cheerfulness into my response; the possibility of gathering information about Nicholas has me grinning. “What can I do for you, Josiah?” As I enter the office, I realize I brought the crowbar with me.
Whoops.
“I believe you left a voicemail expressing interest in donating to our prison ministry program?”
He says it like a question, but that’s the only reason he’s calling me.
I’d bet good money he wouldn’t be in half the hurry to call—or be as pleasant—if I’d left a message needing financial assistance.
I drop into my desk chair, picking up a pen and turning to a fresh page on the legal pad Margot and I have been using to make our lists.
“Yes, I did.” Leaning back, I try to channel a rich bastard. “It’s getting about the time of year to start thinking about charitable donations. Deductibles. Tax credit.”
Josiah makes a confirmatory noise but doesn’t sound as sure as I feel he should.
“Fuck the IRS, am I right?”
Too over the top?
Nah. Nobody hates paying taxes like rich people.
He chuckles uncomfortably. “Yes, of course, sir.” That’s when I remember churches are tax-exempt.
My bad.
Doodling on the legal pad, I try to speed things up. “I was hoping to learn more about the prison ministry before cutting a check. Would I be able to speak with the…” I can’t remember what Nicholas’s role was in this program. “…founder? What’s his name, Nicholas Armon?”
“Reverend Nicholas Ammon,” Josiah corrects. “Right now he’s actually on a spiritual retreat.”
Rats.
While I know Nicholas has been posting on social media as if he’s gone soul-searching in Sedona, an optimistic part of me hoped the promise of money might be enough to get his “supersecret phone number,” or something I could use to track him.
“Oh, really? That sounds fascinating. Where at?”
“Sedona.”
Right.
“Would you happen to have his number?”
“Oh no, Reverend Ammon is unreachable. He’s taking this time to commune with the lord.”
I bite back a groan. “Isn’t that nice.”
“Very.” A keyboard taps in the background.
After thanking him and assuring him that I will call again once Nicholas returns, I hang up.
Leaving the pad on the desk, I pick up my crowbar.
I’m determined to rip up all the old tracks today, and I only have a handful left.
Margot and I will need to discuss our plan for dealing with Nicholas, but I’m not going to press her—yet.
Her admitting that we need to handle him ourselves was a huge step.
Back in the squish room, I crack my neck, preparing to get back to work. Footsteps sound in the hallway; I smile.
“How’s your head, gorgeous?” I call, trying not to be too loud.
No answer.
Now is as good a time as any to let her know the bullshit “retreat” cover is still going strong, which may actually work in our favor. Setting down the crowbar on the concrete with a clank, I brush my hands off on my jeans as I rise. Out in the hallway, I don’t see her.
“Marg—”
Pain explodes across the back of my head. I stagger forward, clumsily rotating as I do. All my movements are reflex, pain filling the space in my brain where thoughts belong. I get my arms up in front of me, eyes blinking furiously to try to clear the spots dancing in my vision. Thoughts return.
Margot.
Get to Margot.
Then they’re gone again.