Chapter 48. Jade
Jade
My eyes blink open, but I can’t see well. A grimy, scratchy film coats my eyeballs. My head is pounding, a stampede beating against my skull.
What happened?
I have no idea where I am. For a moment, I am weightless, adrift in space and time. Apart from my throbbing headache, I have only a faint awareness of my existence. But it’s enough to know I’m alive, so I take that as a win.
I come to my senses. I’m lying on my back, a dusty stone floor beneath me. The stones are cold against my neck. I move my limbs to shake them awake. They’re stiff and achy.
With a grunt and groan, I roll to my side, pressing up to hands and knees. My stomach roils. I battle back a wave of nausea. Grit from the stone floor digs into my palms. I lean into the sensation. It helps clear my cloud of confusion.
I blink several times until my vision clears, but what I see makes little sense: colorful glass bottles in various hues stacked in rows, one on top of the other. It takes a moment for my eyes and brain to sync, and then I get it—wine bottles in a rack.
Okay, I’m in a wine cellar. But where?
The masonry work is familiar. I recognize the shape of the stones and the fine gray mortar holding them together.
The wall curves around me like I’m inside a barrel.
Am I beneath the tower? Either way, I’m still in Castle Carmichael.
I never knew they had a wine cellar, but I wouldn’t tell a teenager where we kept the booze, either.
Thick stone walls hold in the cool air and keep the light dim. A lone window sits high in the wall, almost touching the ceiling. It’s ten feet off the ground and set into the stone, creating a sill that’s about a foot deep.
A decorative metal grate covers the opening to the window. The wine must be valuable. Even if someone broke the window from outside, they couldn’t get into this vault. The grate is made of sturdy wrought iron, with intricate scrollwork and sharp pointed spikes on both ends.
The glow of daylight slipping through is a cruel reminder of freedom that’s frustratingly out of reach. The light is low and faint. Is it close to dawn? My body aches like I’ve been here forever.
As I take in my surroundings, memories rush back.
Elizabeth. Her pills. The music. Conrad pulling me out from under the bed.
Our verbal altercation in his office. Then…
? Conrad grabbing me from behind. His expensive watch was the last thing I saw before I woke up in this wine cellar turned prison cell.
Wherever I am, it doesn’t look like anyone has been in this room for a long time. The bottles are covered in a fine coating of dust and old cobwebs. The dust is likely the reason for my itchy, swollen eyes.
Using a nearby wine rack as support, I pull myself up to standing, but I’m wobbly. My legs are like Jell-O. My mouth is painfully dry, my throat raw. A powerful thirst weakens me further.
The damp air settles into my bones. Slowly I release my grip on the wine rack, wrapping my arms around my chest for warmth. It’s a good thing my legs don’t buckle.
Across from the window is an arched wooden door. Its surface shows deep grain lines, darkened by age. The door appears sturdy. Large nails secure rusty iron hinges into the ancient wood. I pray it’s not locked—but something tells me God isn’t listening right now.
I stagger a few steps until my body slams against the door.
I fumble for the metal handle, gripping it to keep myself upright.
Pressing down the lever, I hope to release the door latch.
It moves without any resistance, but I don’t hear a click.
I pull on the handle, not surprised when the door won’t budge.
I pull harder this time, but the results are the same.
When I press my eye against the keyhole, I confirm my suspicions.
Diffuse lighting illuminates a small stone landing outside the door, and beyond that are the tower stairs sloping upward out of view.
I’m down in the bowels of Miramar—maybe twelve feet underground, with a lone barricaded window high above me.
Patting my pockets for my phone, I remember I dropped it when Conrad abducted me.
The key ring I always keep in my pocket—and that I hoped might hold the key to this door—is gone.
Rage and panic build in my chest, the pressure so intense it feels like a bomb about to explode.
I’m back in lockup, but my instincts tell me this is much worse.
I turn my attention back to the window. I’ve never felt so trapped, so hopeless, so alone.
I make a noise I didn’t know was possible. It’s like the call of a wild animal or the scream of a banshee. The wail explodes from my lips, but no one, not a soul, is around to hear it.