Chapter 33 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Silence suffocates me, settling deep into my bones and anchoring me to the lumpy mattress.
I cough on the dust-laden air, and everything hurts, from my toes to the crown of my head.
I blink up at the mildewed ceiling, then across the room to the wooden door, at the foot of the bed, and back to the ceiling once more.
I listen. Off in the distance, salty sea meets cliffside in a faint sough, but there's nothing else.
No footsteps.
No voices.
No anything other than the intermittent gurgle of slow-moving water.
For days, I have pounded on the door to this room until the fleshy pads of my hands split and bled.
Then I shouted at the walls until my voice cracked and died, but no one ever answered my pleas.
The nuns only come after I've exhausted myself to the point of unconsciousness.
Afterward, I awake to fresh salve on my back and food left on a plastic tray in the center of the room.
I can't keep doing this.
I try to sit up in bed, but the fresh scars running along my spine protest, and my muscles tremble. I've been trapped in here for too long. I grit my teeth and force myself upright. My body wants to give in and crumple back against the mattress, but I won't let it.
Not anymore. Not today.
My hours have been marked by fever, chills, and the pain fissuring my back into fleshy threads.
Reverend Mother wants me to break and beg for forgiveness. I don't need forgiveness, though.
Not from her. Not from the other nuns. And certainly not from God.
She should be begging for my forgiveness instead.
Weeks ago, I might have given in and pleaded for mercy, but not now. After all, I am what she made me, and I am stronger for it.
Today is the day I go home and find my sister.
Locked away in here, I've had time to think about how I ended up at this godforsaken place.
I used to believe being a good person meant submitting to the wants of everyone else, even at the price of what I wanted.
If I've learned one thing here, though, it's that being submissive didn't make me good.
It just made me complacent in bad things.
With effort, I swing my feet to the floor, and a fresh wave of pain pricks my back. A tear slips down my cheek, hot against my chilled skin, and I swipe it away angrily. I won't give this place that. It doesn't get to see me break.
Balling my hands into fists, I force myself to stand. The lashes across my back have healed, but the pain lingers as new skin stretches and pulls taut.
I stagger past the tray of cold food on the floor and flatten my ear against the door.
Yet again, nothing sounds on the other side.
No footsteps, no voices, no … anything.
I twist the handle, finding it locked, of course. Resting my forehead against the door, I push the panic away. There has to be a way out. There just has to be because I refuse to rot in this place.
I scan my surroundings. There are no windows, not in the bedroom or the adjoining bathroom, but there is the twin bed pushed against the far wall.
The chipped frame looks old and brittle, and I think it might be enough.
I walk over to it and sink to my knees before I grip one of the metal legs with both hands and pull with all my strength.
The movement wrenches a pained scream from me, but the bed groans and doesn't give.
I plant both feet against the wall and try again, gnashing my teeth together as the fresh scars stretch.
The frame groans once more before the metal leg snaps off at the solder joint, sending me tumbling backward onto the floor.
Fuuuuuucccccckkkk.
Everything hurts.
The hunk of metal is heavier than I expected, but I roll onto my hands and knees and crawl, heaving the thing with me.
Taking a deep breath, I stand and wedge the iron bar between the door and the stone frame. I push, my muscles straining as I shove it deep with everything I have. I put my entire body weight against it, using the metal like a makeshift crowbar.
My shoulders burn with the effort as I hold my breath, dig my heels in, and press with all my might.
The wood creaks and splinters under the pressure, but it doesn't give. I don't stop, though. I can't give up, not now, not when I am so close. With one final wrench of the bar, the old lock gives way with a crack, and the door opens.
I fall backward, landing hard on the floor. For a moment, I just sit there, trying to catch my breath and blinking at my escape.
Freedom.
I finally have freedom.
Run, Avalynne.
I scramble to my feet and bolt out into the dim hallway. I start down the hall. I don't recognize this part of the convent, but I push forward. I move like a ghost through the interconnected corridors, slipping silently through the shadows. Each step is measured and quiet as I search for an exit.
I need a way out of here and back home to Grandpapa.
He can't turn me away—he won't—not after all this time.
A little voice wonders, though, what if he does?
What if he looks at me with the same disapproval he did that fateful night and tries to send me back?
I swallow hard, pushing the intrusive thought aside.
If that happens, I'll have to find my sister myself, I guess.
The hallway stretches on, each twist and turn disorienting until, finally, I hit a dead end that leads to a stairwell and start to climb.
I arrive somewhere on the first floor of the convent, but I don't recognize the place.
The windows against the far wall show a fog-riddled night and the chapel looming in the distance, light spilling from its windows like molten gold.
Thank God.
The nuns should be asleep, and my mind weighs the odds of how to get out of here.
A car—I need a car—and only three people will have access to a vehicle at the convent—Father Ezra, Reverend Mother, and Xade.
I consider my options before soft murmurs sound from the other end of the hall.
My pulse spikes. The decision has been made for me.
I duck back inside the stairwell and climb to the next floor.
I don't know where I'm going. I'm not familiar with this part of the convent, and I'm navigating blind. Still, I press on, keeping to the shadows, until, finally, I turn down a corridor I recognize.
There's Thatcher's office, and he'll have a car because no way would that man let himself be marooned here. If I find his keys, I can get out of the convent and off the island before anyone even wakes up. If I can't, well … I don't entertain the thought.
I am getting out of here tonight.
I slink toward the door, steadying my trembling fingers against my habit skirt, and try the knob. I sigh in relief when I find it unlocked. A second later, I'm inside his empty office, quietly closing the door behind me.
A fire dies in the fireplace, sending wisps of smoke up the chimney, as my gaze darts, scanning the room.
Drawers. Shelves. Anywhere he might keep keys.
Search, Avalynne!
Quickly, I rush over to Thatcher's desk and open the first drawer. I riffle through pens, pencils, and stationery but don't find his car keys. In the second drawer, I search through a mess of papers and a few hardcover books. Still, I don't find what I'm looking for and my frustration mounts.
Where are his keys?
I start on another drawer, and my fingers brush against something metal. Hope surges in my chest as I pull the thing out.
It's a letter opener.
Shit!
I continue to search.
Keys, keys. Where are his damned keys?!
I start emptying everything, tossing the contents haphazardly to the floor before the door opens. I look up, and my heart lurches into my throat.
Oh no. Oh fuck.
Professor Thatcher looms in the doorway, coffee cup in hand and ominous gaze locked and loaded on me.
My brain glitches, frying every last one of my thoughts. Thatcher's not asleep. He's here, fully awake, and glowering at me with a mixture of surprise, rage, and a thing that I can't quite place.
His glare sweeps over me, taking in my disheveled appearance, my trembling hands, and the desperation that must be stamped across my face.
"Where have you been?" he barks, his voice splitting the silence before his decadent mouth curls into a dour smile. "And what the fuck are you looking for in my office, little troublemaker?"