Chapter 85
Another grieving family member. No surprise there. I wonder how many other residents of the Glendale are in on this, and how they’ve gotten away with it for so long. Not that it matters. I have more immediate concerns, like staying alive.
“Please, you don’t need to do this,” I beg, even as I realize the futility of my words. These people are blinded by the moral indignation of their own twisted righteousness.
“Shut up.” Angelo’s fingers dig into the flesh of my arms hard enough that I almost squeal with pain, but I bite my lip.
I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
And deep down, I’m glad for his roughness, because his fingers might leave bruises that will raise the suspicions of whoever performs my autopsy.
But I’m not dead yet.
I dig my heels in and push back against him, but Angelo is stronger than he looks.
And when I finally get some traction and feel his fingers slipping on my arms, he slams me forward into the elevator cage.
My head smacks into the bars so hard that I see stars.
Then he pins me against it with the full weight of his body.
Satisfied that I’m not going anywhere, he releases his grip on one arm and presses the button to call the elevator, then pulls a phone from his pocket and lifts it to his ear. “I’ve got the bitch. Bringing her back up now.”
The doctor hasn’t appeared. He was right behind me on the stairs but must have turned around when he realized Angelo would stop me.
It’s a small victory amid my defeat, because at least it’s one-on-one now.
But I’m not sure that it matters, because Angelo clearly has the advantage of size and strength.
He’s pressing me against the elevator cage with such force that it’s hard to breathe.
At least until the elevator arrives, and he jerks me back so that he can pull the gate open.
I gulp a long breath, thankful for a momentary reprieve, before he propels me into the car and pulls the gate shut again. He jabs at the button for the fourth floor, and the elevator rises.
I watch the transition between the ground and second floors slide past through the cage—a thick strip of gray concrete. Angelo, satisfied that I’m suitably subdued and have nowhere to go, lowers his hand to push the phone back into his pocket.
At that moment, a jolt shakes the elevator car as it draws level with the second floor.
This isn’t an uncommon occurrence, given its age.
The car shudders whenever it reaches a floor, even if it isn’t stopping there.
But the sudden bump is enough to make Angelo fumble the phone, which slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor.
He curses and bends down to retrieve it and, in doing so, releases his grip on my other arm. And that’s all I need. Before he even realizes what I’m doing, I reach for the elevator control panel and stab the emergency stop button.
The elevator isn’t moving fast, but the ensuing jolt as the car slams to a halt is enough for Angelo, already bent over, to lose his balance. He jerks forward with a grunt, his head slamming into one of the glass panels lining the interior of the elevator car.
I smash my knee into his stomach with all the force I can muster.
The breath explodes from Angelo’s lungs, and he lets out another longer grunt, but he’s not down.
I drop my leg to kick him again, but he’s already twisting around to grab me, and my kneecap connects with his face instead.
My leg explodes in pain, and I hear an audible snapping sound.
At first, I think it might be me, but then I realize it was Angelo’s nose.
Blood is pouring over his lips and chin.
He staggers back with a howl and lifts a hand to his face.
I go for his groin this time, kicking hard.
The howl becomes a warbling shriek, and somewhere deep within me, there’s a flash of satisfaction. I’m done being a victim. What happened to the family members of these people was tragic and wrong, but the way they’ve dealt with it is abhorrent, and they don’t deserve my pity.
Angelo is pushing himself up, reaching for me with grasping hands.
Blood has soaked into his shirt, and his nose is twisted at an unnatural angle.
His movements are slow. He looks dazed. I don’t care.
My next blow lifts him a few inches before he crumples to the floor and lies there, motionless.
I can’t tell if he’s conscious or not, and I don’t bother to check.
Instead, I reach for the control panel to press the button for the ground floor.
But then I stop. Do I really want to ride back down in this elevator, because Angelo might be playing possum and waiting for me to do exactly that so that he can overpower me again.
Besides, Catherine and her little flock of murderers will expect me to run for the ground floor again.
Which is why I pull the elevator door open and step out onto the third-floor landing.
Then I reach back in and push the button for the basement before sliding the gate closed.
The elevator car gives a small groan of protest and starts back down, taking Angelo along for the ride.
I’m free for now.
And then I remember the phone. The one that Angelo dropped in the elevator.
I should have picked it up and called for help, but like an idiot, I left it there.
Now it’s taking a ride to the basement, and there’s no way I’m going after it.
But someone on this floor must have a phone.
I go to the nearest door and raise my fist to hammer on it before I stop.
What if everyone in this building is in on this?
But if that’s the case, wouldn’t they have been there for that weird ritual with the photographs?
Deciding it’s worth the risk, I hammer on the door.
No one answers.
I bang again in desperation. It won’t be long before my captors realize I gave Angelo the slip, if they haven’t already.
When I still don’t get anywhere, I go to the door across the hall and do the same.
Again, nobody answers. I repeat this with the third door, then the fourth, frantically slamming my fists against them and praying that someone will hear me.
But no one does, which is weird, because they can’t all be sleeping that soundly.
Are they ignoring me? I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m obviously not getting any help from anyone on this floor.
Which means I’ll need to make a break for the lobby again.
Abandoning my efforts to raise the alarm, I rush to the stairs.
My footsteps echo in the stairwell, much too loud.
My breath comes in short, rasping gasps.
I reach the second floor and turn on the landing, then take the last flight down toward the lobby.
But when I’m only halfway there, Angelo appears at the foot of the stairs.
He glares up at me, his face caked in blood.
Then he grips the banister and starts to climb.