Chapter 16
I slip inside my secret room and wait for my eyes to adjust to the bleak light. I navigate the clutter, stepping around the bucket and beside the box of diapers until my shin bumps against the cold iron of the footlocker. I drop to my knees. The latch gives way with a heavy thunk.
I throw the lid back and search inside, but just like earlier, the key I had kept in the trunk for safekeeping is gone.
An image of Gollum with the ring from The Hobbit surfaces over my own missing precious.
My hand sweeps the interior again, scraping against the bare metal bottom.
It’s definitely empty. The hollow sound of my knuckles hitting the sides of the chest rings in my ears.
Scanning the room, it feels suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in.
The key has to be here somewhere. My search starts along the corner of the room, covering every inch until it snags on something along the far wall.
There, the shiny metal key sits on the floor, tossed haphazardly on a dirty paper plate, mostly obscured by the heavy, inky darkness of the corner.
I start to walk toward it, then stop. The shadows in that corner are deep and thick. I’m being ridiculous, scared of a shadow. I’m a logical grown woman, but my body doesn’t care about logic. My muscles lock up, triggered by a reflex I thought I’d left behind in my prison cell.
Stay away from the blind spots.
For a second, I’m not in this dusty room.
I’m back in the block. I’ve returned to where a shadow isn’t just an absence of light; it’s a hiding spot for a shiv, a fist, or a guard looking to make a quota.
In prison, you learn that the dark bites.
You learn that if you can’t see into a corner, there is someone standing in it, waiting for you.
“Stop being stupid,” I hiss under my breath. “You’re at home, not in prison. You’re in control here.”
“Are you sure about that?” a whisper returns.
I ignore the intrusive thoughts and clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms until the sting grounds me. But the hair on the back of my neck is still prickling with the certainty that I am being watched. So I count to three.
On three, I lunge. I dive into the darkness, then close my hand around the key. I expect someone to grab my wrist, icy fingers to wrap around my throat. But of course none of that happens. Then I scramble backward until I’m safe in the hallway where my mind doesn’t play tricks on me.
I don’t stay to check the rest of the room.
The adrenaline is sour in my mouth now. I slam the bookshelf shut behind me, leaning against it for a second.
I calculate other hiding places for my precious key—on my car keychain, wearing it on a necklace, tucked into my jewelry box—but I discard them one by one until I land on the only place that makes sense that no one could ever find.
The studio. I have the perfect spot to hide the key there: in plain sight.