Chapter 50
Pain.
White-hot pain.
But Ethan kept grinding his zip-tied wrists against rock, raking his arms up and down in the same motion, the same steady
friction. His clothes were stiff with dried blood. The cloth bag stuck to his face like plastic, suffocating and damp. He
drifted out of consciousness, but the sensation kept wrenching him back into his body, like the killer’s knife was still there
between his organs. The pain tethered him. It kept him alive.
Now after hours of effort, Ethan sensed the restraints were finally weakening, millimeters from snapping free. His heart fluttered
with hope—then he heard something.
Soft, padding footsteps emerged from the cave.
Tess.
He lay still on the ground and listened to her paces as she circled unseen, sometimes close, sometimes far. Stopping to examine
this and that. Wiping surfaces. Moving things around. Opening the Jeep’s door, then shutting it. Tess was surveying her crime
scene, confirming and reconfirming her work, the same way Ethan had seen her struggle to gather the nerve to shut her own
apartment door. It was chilling, the woman’s silent focus.
Then he sensed her footsteps approach him, growing louder and louder—alarmingly close, now—until they stopped inches from his right ear. He knew she was standing directly over him, watching his chest for the rise and fall of breath.
Ethan didn’t exhale.
He knew Tess was only double-checking. She’d already examined his body for vital signs hours ago. The bag zip-tied around
his throat was an advantage, he’d realized, because it meant Tess could only check for a pulse in his forearms. And sure enough,
when she’d pressed her fingers into his wrist, Ethan had silently squeezed his arms inward—against the small rocks he’d positioned
under each armpit. Pressure applied to each brachial artery, he knew, would restrict blood flow to his radial and ulnar arteries,
hiding his heartbeat.
Now he sensed Tess move on. Satisfied that her work was complete and all witnesses were dead, her footsteps faded away into
the forest.
Ethan waited until he was sure she was gone. Then he repositioned onto his side and resumed grinding his zip-tied wrists against
rock until the restraint finally, finally, snapped. He pulled his arms apart. He tore an eyehole in the fabric. Then he rolled over onto his stomach and crawled uphill
toward the Jeep’s headlights, every slow inch of progress torturous, every motion another piercing dagger in his guts, screaming
through cloth and clenched teeth. Twice, he lost consciousness. But the pain refused to let him go, and at last Ethan got
there, gasping and dizzy, and with his fingernails he dragged himself up into the vehicle. Beside the dead man at the wheel
he found a citizens band radio mounted to the dashboard.
With bloody fingers, he lifted the microphone.
“Help.”
“Ethan Ramirez was airlifted to Providence Portland late last night,” Washington says. “Last I checked, he’s in emergency
surgery.”
Tess’s mouth drops open.
“Guess he’s not such an airhead after all, huh? I don’t even know how you’d hide your own vitals, but leave it to a physician,
I guess. A few hours ago he was even conscious enough to say some very helpful things.” The detective stops and smiles. “You
can sense where I’m going with this, right?”
Petrified silence.
“You’re clever, Tess. Work it out.”
Nothing.
“Really? Weren’t you paying attention?” The detective looks at her sideways. “Come on, girl. It’s been right there in front
of you this whole time.”
Tess blinks, still not comprehending.
But it’s fine. She’ll get there.
“All day today, you thought you were playing me—but really, I was playing you.” Washington leans forward. “You were so focused on withholding information from me, it never occurred to you that I might
be withholding things, too.”
The blood is draining from her skin.
“Right now, as we speak, a massive rescue effort is under way up at the Devil’s Staircase. They’ve been working since last
night, all thanks to Ethan and his radio call.”
Washington opens her phone, where it all began earlier today. She scrolls through her text chain with the rescue operation’s
incident commander. Updates, questions, fears. Details of the grueling logistics, team injuries, setbacks.
She stops on one.
We’re losing her.
“For twenty-four hours now, they’ve been working to save Allie’s life.”
“You weren’t the only survivor, Tess. You only thought you were, and I never corrected you. Never interrupt your enemy while they’re making a mistake, remember?”
Tess is too shocked to speak.
“You had no idea.” Washington flashes a carnivorous grin. “While you limped for miles through the forest all night and flagged
down some truck driver in the morning, while you were in an ambulance getting checked out for all your cuts and bruises and
napping in your hospital bed and telling me your amazing final-girl story, the real heroes have been working their asses off.
It’s all over the news by now. They’ve got specialists coming down from Seattle, volunteers from Flour Gold pitching in with
food and supplies and transportation, everyone working together to get Allie out. Bringing her oxygen bottles, clearing collapsed
rocks, keeping her warm. She’s managed to hold her body out of the water to avoid hypothermia. They even think she dislocated her own ankle to reach an air pocket so she could breathe. But getting her out is a slow and dangerous process.”
The muscles in Tess’s jaw tighten. Her fingernails dig into the vinyl tabletop.
The detective’s text chain—We’re losing her—stays open between them as the screen dims.
“It’s been hours since my last update,” she says. “And I’ll be honest. It’s not looking good for Allie. At this point we’re
all preparing ourselves for bad news. There’s a strong chance she’s already dead and they’ll only recover her body. But I’m
guessing we’ll find that missing memory card with her, won’t we?”
Tess looks sick.
Allie Merritt is a fighter, a tough gal, in the incident commander’s words, but with every passing hour she’s running out of steam. Every lifesaving measure buys just a bit of time.
“God, I hope they can save her. She did a hell of a thing, fighting for herself and her unborn baby, surviving everything
you and Jacob threw at her. Like a lot of people right now, I’m praying for Allie. I hope I get the chance to meet her.”
Tess can only stare at the dimmed screen, at those three words.
We’re losing her.
Until the screen goes fully black.
“But on a lighter note, I did learn a new Finnish word today,” Washington says. “Tell me, Tess—have you heard of sisu?”
Tess is barely listening. Her eyes are filling with tears—authentic tears, this time—and when she speaks her voice is a beaten
croak, almost too faint to hear: “I . . .”
“What’s that?”
“I . . . want a lawyer.”
“That’s fine. I’ve already gotten everything I need.” The detective gathers her things, shuts her padfolio, and stands up.
“Thank you again, Tess, for everything you’ve told me today.”
On her way out, she smiles wickedly.
“You were a big help.”
Opening the door, Washington stops to relax her shoulders and inhale the cooling air outside.
She feels like she can finally breathe again.
Upon leaving a soundproof room, the world always seems to come alive with fresh ambience: the gentle hum of the ventilation, murmuring voices downstairs, gear lockers shutting.
She smells hand sanitizer and stale coffee and frosted cupcakes left over from the receptionist’s birthday.
The cube-shaped interrogation room has come to feel oppressive, even cave-like, and as an extraordinary young woman she hopes to meet liked to say: When you leave a cave, the entire world becomes new again.
Behind her, Tess finds her voice.
“What does sisu mean?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Washington steps out into the hallway. “He wasn’t talking about you.”
The door swings shut.