Chapter 20
EMMA
If my father hasn’t killed Leo, then I’m going to kill him myself.
With my bare hands. Slowly. Possibly involving dismemberment.
The fury is so bright and hot in my chest that for a moment I can’t breathe through it. How dare he. How dare he lock me in here like I’m some helpless thing that needs protecting, like I’m a doll to be put on a shelf while the real people handle the real problems.
I throw myself against the door again, my fists slamming into the steel so hard pain shoots up my arms. “Leo Santoro you let me out of here right now!”
Nothing. Just the echo of my own voice in this goddamn steel box.
I pound harder, screaming until my throat is raw. “I swear to god when I get out of here I’m going to kill you! Do you hear me? I’m going to—”
My fist connects wrong and pain explodes through my knuckles. I look down and see blood welling up from split skin, my hands already turning purple with bruises.
Good. When I see Leo I want him to see what locking me up did. I want him to see the evidence of my rage.
If he’s even still alive.
The thought tries to wedge itself in through my anger and I shove it away violently. No. I’m not letting fear take over. I’m too pissed for fear.
But my hands are shaking as I press them against the door, and I hate it. I hate the trembling. I hate that part of me is scared shitless that Leo is out there getting himself killed while I’m trapped in this coffin box.
Which he put me in.
I’m going to make him regret it for the rest of his significantly shortened life.
I step back from the door, breathing hard, trying to think through the rage. The panic room is most likely soundproof, which means screaming myself hoarse isn’t going to accomplish anything except maybe damaging my vocal cords.
Fine. Fine. If I can’t scream my way out, I’ll think my way out.
Because Emma Brennan wasn’t raised to be helpless. I wasn’t raised to sit quietly in a locked room and wait for men to decide her fate. Even if that was what my father wanted, my mom did her best to make me strong.
I look around the panic room with fresh eyes, forcing myself to see it not as a prison but as a puzzle. There has to be a weakness. There has to be something I can exploit.
The room is maybe twelve by twelve feet.
Steel walls. Steel door. A cot in one corner with blankets and pillows.
Shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, and other snacks.
A small bathroom in the corner with a toilet and sink.
Overhead lights that are too bright and making my rage-headache worse.
And there—on the far wall—a vent. Ventilation system.
I run to it, my hands already reaching for the grate. It’s screwed in but maybe I can—
The screws are tiny. Some kind of security screws that need a special tool I don’t have. I try prying at them with my fingernails and only succeed in breaking two nails down to the quick.
“Fuck!” I shout at the vent, which doesn’t care about my problems.
Okay. Not the vent. What else?
I pace the room, my mind racing. Think like Leo. Think like someone who designs panic rooms. There has to be a way out from the inside—building codes probably require it, fire safety, something. You can’t just trap someone in a steel box with no emergency exit.
There’s a control panel by the door. It’s small and mounted at chest height. It’s got a keypad and a small screen that’s currently showing LOCKED in red letters that feel extremely fucking unhelpful.
I press buttons at random. Nothing happens. The screen just keeps showing LOCKED in its smug red letters.
I try what I think might be Leo’s code—his birthday, my birthday, the date he took me.
Hell, I even try the first day we had sex and every significant number I can think of.
Nothing. Just an error beep that sounds irritatingly cheerful.
After the fifth failed attempt, the screen flashes LOCKOUT MODE ACTIVATED. KEYPAD DISABLED FOR 10 MINUTES.
“You have got to be kidding me!” I slam my fist into the wall next to the panel and immediately regret it as pain shoots through my already-bruised knuckles. I cry out and massage my hand, feeling tears of pain well up in my eyes.
Ten minutes. I don’t have ten minutes. Leo could be dead in ten minutes. My father could be dead. Everyone could be dead and I’ll still be in here.
No. No, I’m not waiting ten minutes.
There has to be something else. Another way.
I run my hands along the walls, feeling for anything unusual. A hidden button. A secret latch. Something. The steel is smooth and cold under my palms, yielding nothing. I check every corner and seam, every place where the walls meet the floor or ceiling.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I’m going to fucking lose my mind. I’m going to—
Wait.
There’s a seam. It’s small, almost invisible right next to the control panel, partially hidden by the panel itself.
A panel behind the panel. That’s so Leo it’s almost funny. Paranoid bastard probably has redundant systems for everything.
I dig my fingernails into the seam and pull. Nothing. It’s sealed tight, probably magnetically locked or something equally impossible to open with just my hands.
I need leverage. Something thin and strong enough to wedge into the seam. I rush over to the shelves and look at my options.
The protein bars are useless. The water bottles are plastic. The cot has a metal frame but it’s bolted to the floor. The bathroom has…
I run to the sink, yanking open the small cabinet. Toilet paper. Cleaning supplies. A plunger. Completely useless for breaking into security panels.
But then I see it and it’s like the heavens have opened and angels are singing.
A first aid kit.
I grab it and dump the contents onto the floor. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze, medical tape, pain relievers—there. A small pair of medical scissors, the kind with blunt tips, but they’re metal and they’re thin.
Bingo.
I run back to the panel and jam the scissors into the seam, prying with all my strength. My hands are sweaty and cold, making it hard to get a good grip. The scissors slip and I nearly stab myself in the palm.
“Come on,” I growl at the panel, wedging the scissors back in. “Open, you piece of—”
For a horrible moment nothing happens and I think I’m wrong, there’s no panel here, I’m just scratching uselessly at a wall while men die outside. While Leo dies. While my father—
The panel pops open with a small click that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room.
Behind it is a mess of wiring and circuitry that looks like the inside of a computer exploded. There’s also a small screen with text that I have to squint to read in the dim interior light.
EMERGENCY OVERRIDE PROTOCOL
Manual release requires sequential input of backup codes OR mechanical release of primary locking mechanism. WARNING: Mechanical release will trigger alarm system and alert all security personnel.
I actually laugh, though it comes out slightly hysterical. Alert security personnel. Like they’re not all currently trying to kill each other in the house around me.
Below the text is a diagram. It shows the locking mechanism—a series of bolts that slide into place when the door is locked. And there, marked in red, is a manual release. A lever I can pull if I can just reach it.
The problem is the lever is inside the wall, behind more paneling and what looks like approximately seven thousand wires that are probably important for something.
I stare at the diagram, trying to memorize it. The lever is…there. Behind the blue wires. Or are those green? The lighting in this panel is terrible.
It doesn’t matter. I just need to move the wires out of the way, pull the lever, and get the hell out of here.
Simple.
Except I’m probably about to electrocute myself and I’ll never get it, and what if that means Leo is losing, what if that means—
Focus, Emma. One thing at a time.
I grab the scissors again and start prying at the wires, trying to expose more of the mechanism. It takes three tries to get the scissors positioned right because of the dampness of my hands.
A wire comes loose and sparks fly. I jerk my hand back with a yelp and the scissors clatter to the floor. My fingers are just slightly burned, but it feels like I’ve touched a hot stove. The smell of singed skin mingles in the air, making me gag slightly.
I grab the scissors again, ignoring the burn. I ignore everything except the need to get this door open.
Another wire. This one doesn’t spark but it’s tough, coated in thick rubber that resists the scissors. I have to saw at it, my arm muscles burning with the effort.
It finally gives way and I nearly punch myself in the face with the momentum.
More wires. Some come loose easily. Others fight me. My fingers are getting cut on sharp edges of metal housing, blood making everything slippery. I wipe my hands on my leggings and keep going.
I can see more of the mechanism now. The diagram wasn’t lying—there’s definitely a lever in there. It’s red and seemingly mocking me from behind a tangle of wiring I haven’t cleared yet.
“Almost there,” I mutter to myself. “Come on, Emma, you can do this. You’ve taken apart harder things than this.”
I haven’t. I’ve never taken apart a security system in my life. But lying to myself seems to be helping so I keep doing it.
Another wire. Then another. My arm is cramping from the awkward angle, my burned fingers protesting every movement. There’s blood on the wires now, on the panel, and seeping on the scissors. I don’t care.
There. There. I can see the lever clearly now behind the last layer of wiring.
I reach in, my hand barely fitting through the gap I’ve created. The edges of the housing scrape against my arm, sharp enough that I feel skin tear. Warm blood trickles down to my elbow, but I don’t pull back.
My fingers brush the lever. So close. Just a little further—
My fingertips touch it, but I can’t get a grip. The angle is wrong. I push my arm deeper into the gap, feeling more scraping and tearing, my shoulder pressed against the wall now.