Chapter 40 Autumn
AUTUMN
The light filtering through the small window shifted. The glass was filthy and blurred, but I could tell that the top of the basement sat partly above ground. The air down here pressed in, squeezing every breath tighter. If only I could just reach it and crack it open.
I drifted in and out, my head sagging forward, my wrists screaming from the rope. I was still in the chair, still trapped, still waiting.
But not for rescue.
I had to get out before Dom got too far, before he risked everything trying to reach me.
Every time I surfaced, I tried. When the pain dulled just enough and the fog in my mind cleared, I tested the rope. It chafed. Bit. Refused to budge.
But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t stopping.
Once a gymnast, always a gymnast. Even if I’d left the floor routines behind years ago for a pool and a swimsuit. I’d chosen swimming in the end, partly because of Jimmy Van Beek and his cocky “you’d be faster in the water than flipping around in tights” comment.
But deep down, I never let go of gymnastics.
I shifted my weight forward, testing the restraint.
The ropes were solid. But the chair? It was not flimsy, exactly—it was real wood—but the frame flexed a little when I moved. There were no armrests, either. I could work with that.
My feet were planted on the floor, my core tight. I inched forward until I was half off the seat. Just enough space. Just enough room behind me.
I ducked my chin, rounded my shoulders, and drew my knees in. Then came the grind, lifting my bound wrists, inch by inch, up and over the backrest.
Agony tore through my shoulders. My joints howled, but I kept going. I was channeling every Phys Ed lecture I’d ever half-listened to. Controlled breathing. Neural focus. Pain as data, not destiny. If my department head could see me now, they’d skip the finals and overnight me the degree.
With a final jerk, I slipped free of the chair.
Now on the floor, I twisted onto my side and folded myself down, my spine curled, my knees tight to my chest. It was ugly and shaky, but I managed to thread my legs through the loop of my arms.
Bit by bit, my wrists slid past my thighs. Past my knees.
And over my feet.
I lay there, panting, with my arms in front now. Still tied.
But mobile.
The door was locked. And not some flimsy basement kind, either. This thing was solid steel. Someone had to unlock it, or I had zero chance. Not even with broken knuckles.
Seriously, who puts a door like this on a basement?
I scanned the room. I needed something sharp.
Behind a heap of junk in the corner—splintered table legs, crushed tin crates, a busted shelving unit—I caught a glimpse of dark canvas wedged in the mess.
It was not exactly a weapon. But not nothing.
A duffel bag.
The same one Stiff-Neck had tried to bury on that trail.
I dropped to my knees, pinned one end of the bag under my foot, and tugged at the zipper with both hands. It was awkward as hell with my wrists bound, but it gave.
Inside was just one item.
“Fuck me.”
A gun.
Grass clippings clung to the lining, and silt pooled faintly at the base. The bag had definitely held more. I remember how full it had looked. It held Lulu’s collar, for one. I’d seen him toss it in.
Still, it was something.
It was evidence. Enough to back up everything I’d said. Maybe more. If Susan Nolan got her hands on it, it could blow the whole mess open.
Hurried, uneven steps rattled the ceiling overhead, and the creak of the first stair followed.
I wished I had more time. But this? This was exactly what I’d been waiting for.
The gun stayed where it was. I zipped the bag shut and turned to the chair. My wrists still burned, but I could lift now. It was clunky and heavy, but manageable.
With both hands gripping tight, I crept toward the door.
The handle turned.
He stepped in.
I swung with my full body. I was off balance, my wrists aching, but rage had better aim than grace.
Wood cracked against bone, and he dropped.
I gave him one more whack for good measure. The man was nothing more than a sack of potatoes now. And he was probably even dreaming of unicorns.
Then I moved, my hands scrambling at his belt. The gun was there, but I passed it over. Too risky. I’d probably end up shooting myself. But just beside it was something else. Something smaller and usable.
“Bingo.”
A knife.
I yanked it free, braced the handle between my knees, and worked the rope across the blade. Again and again.
It caught. Then sliced.
I was free.
I rummaged through his jacket, then checked his pants pockets. What? No car keys?
“Damn it,” I muttered. I hoped he’d left them somewhere obvious. Maybe a coffee table upstairs, or a hook by the door.
But I found a phone. There was no passcode screen, just a thumbprint sensor. I grabbed his hand and pressed his thumb to the button.
It clicked and unlocked.
“Sucker.”
The map app opened. Thank goodness for offline navigation. I was still somewhere on the edge of Buffaloberry Hill, though I didn’t recognize a thing. But I didn’t need to. I just had to head east, and I’d eventually hit the center of town.
I was about to bolt when something rolled out of his pocket.
Dom’s coin.
My fist closed around it. I tucked it into my bra, right over my heart.
There was no moping over him. Not now. I had work to do.
I slung the duffel over my shoulder and stepped over the guard. His big mouth was slack, finally silent. I gave him a good, solid kick on my way out.
“Thanks for unlocking the door, genius.”
I grabbed the steel door and pulled. It fought me every inch, but I got it shut and shoved the bolt across. Then I ran upstairs.
Out the front I went. The cold slapped my lungs, stinging all the way down as realization dawned on me. No wonder the bastard didn’t have keys.
There was no fucking car!
His buddy must’ve left him here alone.
The path ahead offered no cover, just open ground and too many directions. But the air carried a scent of wet stone and river moss.
Water.
I could hear the flow.
There was no fevered trail mix-up this time. No signs playing tricks.
I rounded the back of the lodge. Just beyond the trees was the river.
It was close, but the slope down from here was a sheer drop. It was too steep to attempt without snapping something, so I turned away from the building and followed the tree line until the bank eased up. There, the earth leveled out just enough for me to slide down.
Something slipped.
Dom’s coin.
I caught it just before it hit the dirt. “Not losing you,” I whispered, tucking it into the zippered pocket of my cargo pants.
Then I crouched at the edge and grabbed a fallen branch, poking it into the water. The current tugged, but not hard. The stick sank almost to the base.
The water was up to my belly, maybe four feet. It was enough to wade, and I could swim if I had to.
But where did it lead?
To reach Buffaloberry Hill, I had to follow the riverbank east, downstream. A few steps later, the river bent sharply. It was a deep bend, carved out over time.
But from here, the bank turned rough, and there was no way to keep walking without slipping or falling in.
Which meant I’d have to get in the river. But it was not ideal, especially not with the bag.
I looked up. The lodge sat just over the ridge, with one window angled directly toward the bend. The shape was familiar, and it was low to the ground. It had to be the basement window.
In order to get back to town, I might have to wade. Maybe swim. And if the bag went with me, everything inside could be ruined.
The gun alone might not be enough. I needed the whole bag intact.
I looked around, my pulse ticking.
Burying it wasn’t an option. The river would claim it the moment the tide surged.
My eyes caught on a tree. It was tall and wide-limbed, with branches spaced just enough. That would work.
I climbed like I used to during rope-ladder drills in conditioning, my arms shaking, knees driving, and core tight to stay centered. Vault prep, they called it. Control up, control down.
At the top, I wedged the bag between two solid branches and memorized the angles, the bark, and the curve of the trunk. Then I dropped, my legs bent and body angled for the landing.
Now, the part where I had to save myself.