Chapter 41 #2
Finn’s gaze flicks to his brother’s body, and something flashes across his face too quickly to read. He releases my hair with a shove and moves toward the door, each step vibrating with barely contained violence.
At the threshold, he pauses, turning back with one last venomous glare. “He’s not coming for you,” Finn says, voice flat and certain. “Your precious Matteo doesn’t even care to look. He’s too busy burning the city down without caring if you were in any of the buildings.”
With that, he’s gone, the door swinging almost shut behind him. I strain my ears, waiting for it to close completely and for the lock to click, but it doesn’t come. Either he forgot in his anger, or he’s so confident in my helplessness that he doesn’t think it matters.
The silence that follows feels like a physical pressure on my eardrums after the thunderstorm of his presence. My laughter dies as suddenly as it came, leaving me hollow and trembling.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water continues its maddening rhythm, but now there’s something else—the sound of Finn’s footsteps moving down the corridor, growing fainter with each second. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heartbeat gradually slowing from its panicked gallop.
“He forgot to lock it,” I whisper to Adam, voice barely audible even to my own ears. “He forgot to lock the door.”
Or maybe it’s a trap. Another cruel game to give me hope before snatching it away. But Finn’s rage had seemed genuine, his disgust at my behavior real enough to make him careless.
I stare at the door, slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beyond it offering the first possibility of escape I’ve had since waking up in this nightmare.
My thoughts drift, untethered by exhaustion, skipping across memories like stones across water. Mom’s face swims into view, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughs. Dad teaching me how to use my knife. Leo giving me half his ice cream when I dropped mine.
Strange, the things your mind latches onto when you’re handcuffed to a table with a corpse for company.
Dad’s birthday is coming up, and I promised Mom I’d be there. But… now I might end up breaking that promise. God, if I die, I hope Piper lies to my parents. Tell them I died of an aneurysm or something in my sleep.
No, I shouldn’t think like that. I’ll be there somehow. And, fuck it all, I’m bringing Matteo. We can wear matching eyepatches and give Dad his present together.
My throat tightens as I think about the perfect gift I bought—the vintage knife… wait. Hold the fuck up.
The knife.
My heart stutters as I dig into the pocket and fumble with clumsy fingers, pulling out the small knife. How could I have forgotten?
“Thanks, Dad,” I whisper, the words a prayer as I slowly unfold the blade.
I turn my attention to the handcuff, examining the lock through eyes blurred with exhaustion.
With my free hand, I maneuver the knife tip into the keyhole, feeling for the mechanism inside. It’s awkward. The angle is all wrong, and my hand shakes from cold and fatigue. The knife slips, scratching across my already raw wrist, and I hiss in pain.
“Focus,” I tell myself, voice a thread of sound in the quiet room. “Focus, Raven.”
I try again, more carefully this time, probing gently until I feel the internal components of the lock. There’s a technique to it; small, precise movements, feeling for resistance, then applying pressure in just the right spot.
The knife slips again, the tip skittering across metal with a sound that makes my teeth clench. My fingers are cramping, unused to this kind of delicate work after hours of stress and cold.
“Come on,” I mutter, adjusting my grip. “Come on, you stubborn piece of shit.”
My wrist aches where the metal has rubbed it raw, sticky with blood that makes my grip treacherous. I pause, wiping my hand on my dress, leaving a dark smear across the once-pretty fabric.
The third attempt is no better, and frustration builds in my chest, threatening to spill over into hopeless tears. I can’t fail at this. I can’t.
“You never taught me how to do this one-handed, Dad,” I huff.
I force myself to breathe, to calm the frantic racing of my heart. Panic is the enemy of precision. I close my eyes for a moment, visualizing the lock, the mechanism, the way it should feel when I get it right.
When I try again, I move with deliberate slowness. The knife slides in, and I feel the tumblers inside, resistant but not immovable. I apply gentle pressure, probing, listening with my fingertips as much as my ears for that telltale click.
Nothing happens.
“Please,” I beg the lock, the knife, whatever gods might be listening. “Please. Please. Please.”
My hand cramps violently, fingers seizing around the knife handle. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, tasting blood as the scab splits open again. Working through the pain, I shift my angle slightly, trying a different approach.
And then… a click. So soft I might have imagined it, but when I test the cuff, it gives just slightly.
“Yes,” I breathe, hope flaring like a match in darkness.
One more careful twist and the cuff springs open, falling away from my ravaged wrist. The sudden freedom is so shocking that for a moment I just stare at my hand, disbelieving.
I’m free.
Well, free from the table at least. Still trapped with a corpse and a psychopath potentially returning at any moment.
I stand on shaky legs, wincing as blood rushes back into numbed limbs. The room tilts alarmingly, and I grab the table for support, waiting for my equilibrium to return.
Adam’s body lies where it fell, a grim reminder of Finn’s capacity for violence. I need a weapon—something better than my small knife.
Swallowing my revulsion, I kneel beside Adam, searching his pockets with trembling fingers. Nothing in the front. Nothing in the back. I pat down his jacket, feeling for anything useful, but he’s as empty as his staring eyes.
I straighten, knife clutched in my hand, and approach the door. My heart hammers against my ribs as I peer through the gap. The corridor beyond is dimly lit, concrete stretching away into shadows. I strain my ears, listening for footsteps, voices, any sign of Finn’s presence.
Nothing but silence. Is it a trap? A test? What if he’s waiting just around the corner, ready to punish me for attempting escape?
But what choice do I have? Stay here, wait for him to return, pray that Matteo somehow finds me before Finn carries out his threats?
I think of Matteo, of the fire that lives inside him. He’s looking for me. I know he is. But I can’t just wait to be rescued like some fairy-tale princess in a tower.
Decision made, I slip through the door, knife held ready in my good hand. The corridor is cold, the air heavy with the same damp, musty scent as my cell. I hug the wall, moving as silently as my weakened state allows, each step carefully placed to avoid making noise.
The hallway seems to stretch forever, darkness gathering in pools between the sparse, flickering lights overhead. I have no idea which way leads out. But each step takes me farther from that room, from Adam’s accusing stare, and hope builds with each foot of distance gained.
There’s a junction ahead where the hallway splits in two directions. I pause, trying to determine which way might lead to freedom. Left or right? A coin toss when my life is the wager.
I choose left, drawn by what might be a slightly fresher current of air, the faintest hint of something other than mildew and death.
Three steps into my chosen path, confidence growing with each moment I remain undiscovered, I collide with something solid and warm in the darkness.
My heart stops, the knife halfway raised in defense, as I find myself pressed against a body that’s neither corpse nor empty air.
I open my mouth to scream, but a hand is slapped over my mouth before I can make a sound.