Chapter 29
Billa
The air is damp with river fog when Florencia and I slip through the side door of the abandoned civic hall. The windows are blacked out, but I can still feel people watching as we step inside.
Chairs are set in a rough circle. No names, no introductions, just a silent agreement that we’re here because of what was done to us. Some faces are familiar from last time, and some are new.
The woman with platinum hair sits directly across from me, her posture elegant, her tone measured.
She speaks first, like she can’t stand silence.
“They said it was therapy. Different facilities, different words. But always the same objects.” She glances at her hands.
“For me, it was the spool. White thread. Always spinning.”
A shiver runs down my spine. The spool again.
Then another survivor, an older man with sunken eyes, nods. “North Ridge called it Wing B. They used the spool as a test. Watch the thread, follow the line. I was only twelve.”
A woman with trembling hands whispers. “At Willow Glen, it was the same. The white spool. They told us the thread would lead us out. But it always led back.”
The circle falls into a heavy hush.
Florencia leans forward. “Radley, North Ridge, Willow Glen. Three facilities and three stages of the same performance.” She glances around, her journalist’s instinct breaking through the anonymity. “If we can connect them publicly—”
“No names,” the woman with platinum hair snaps, her eyes flashing. “That’s how they catch us and bring us back in. I’ve come too far to risk returning.”
I shift in my chair. The imaginary weight of the spool presses on me. I can almost hear its whir, its echo in the basement.
From somewhere in the rafters above, a sound cuts through the silence. Not a creak or a gust of wind, but a voice, faint, distorted.
“The performance isn’t over.”
Every head jerks up. My skin prickles.
Florencia grabs my wrist, her nails digging in. “Did you hear that?”
The voice fades, but not before the last words reach us. “Phoenix is watching.”
The circle breaks, panic buzzing like electricity. Some rush for the exits, and others stay frozen in their chairs.
I can’t move. I just keep staring at the shadows in the rafters, heart pounding. The same Phoenix who Ember and Luke said suddenly went missing from their online chat?
Because if he is watching, then who’s pulling his strings?
The words hang in the stale air. Phoenix is watching.
My pulse slams against my ribs. I can’t just sit here, so I shove back my chair, the scrape ringing sharp through the silence.
Florencia grabs my arm. “What are you doing?”
“I need to find out who’s up there.”
Her eyes grow wide. “You can’t be serious.”
“This needs to end.”
“You don’t need to end!”
I square my shoulders. “I’m not scared of someone who has to hide in the shadows.”
“Don’t.” Florencia’s whisper is fierce. “Whoever’s up there, he wanted us to hear him, not see him. It’s a trap.”
But I can’t stay rooted. My body is already moving, angling toward the narrow stairwell at the back of the hall. “Then I’ll spring it.”
“Billa!” She jerks on my arm, trying to prevent me from doing this. “This is how they get us. They lure us with threads and shadows, and when we follow, we disappear.”
Her words make me think of Kenzi, of Fenna, of all the kids still trapped in those basements. If I don’t follow, if I keep sitting quietly in circles, then I’m no better than the ones who looked away.
I wrench free from her grip. “Then I’ll be the one who doesn’t disappear.”
The stairwell yawns open, its iron steps slick with condensation. Every creak is louder than my breath. My chest is tight, but my legs keep climbing. I have no other choice.
Behind me, Florencia follows. “You’ll blow everything we’ve built. Our cover, all survivors’ safety…”
Her words fade as I reach the landing. The rafters stretch above the circle like a skeletal spine. Shadows coil and break with the flickering light of a single hanging bulb.
“Hello?” My voice shakes, but more from anger than concern. “If you’re Phoenix, show yourself.”
Nothing.
Then, from deeper in the rafters, the faintest sound. Metal on metal. Possibly a retreat.
I lunge forward, ignoring the way the wooden planks shift under my weight. “Stop!” My voice cracks into the echo. “I know you’re there, and we need to put an end to all of this.”
Something brushes the air, like a draft, or a presence slipping away.
Florencia’s footsteps pound up the stairwell. “Billa, don’t!”
But I can’t stop. Not now, because if I don’t see who’s pulling Phoenix’s strings, I’ll never forgive myself. Almost everyone I care about is at stake now.
A faint rustle sounds. Followed by a sharp metallic ping, like a hook catching on wire.
“There!” My voice echoes up and out. I rush toward it, my heart in my throat.
A figure darts between beams, too fast and too shadowed to make out. Just the sweep of fabric, the scrape of boots.
“Stop!” I lunge, grabbing for the sound. My fingers close around air, then wood splinters. A board shifts under my weight with a sickening crack.
“Billa!” Florencia’s cry echoes.
But I’m already moving, reckless and determined. The figure slips again, but not before something drops from his pocket. It’s a glint of white against the black.
I snatch up a small plastic spool. The thread’s frayed like it’s been used a thousand times.
My chest tightens. White spool. Again.
A shadow looms. I whirl just as the figure swings down on a rope of knotted fabric, landing hard on the beam in front of me. A mask covers his face, making his features look smooth, featureless except for slits where eyes should be.
For one breathless second, I’m frozen.
Then the masked figure lunges.
I stumble back, my heel catching on a loose board. My balance tilts, the drop threatening beneath me. I clutch the spool like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
Hands seize my arms. Florencia’s, pulling me down, yanking me out of reach. The figure’s grasp misses by mere inches, and then he leaves, vaulting into the shadows.
Florencia and I crash onto the landing in a heap. My breath comes ragged, wild. She grips my shoulders, her face pale with fury. “Do you want to die? Do you want to end up back in their hands? Then what? There’ll be one less person helping the victims.”
I can’t answer. I just stare at the spool, thread unraveling between my fingers.
Because when I turned it over in the light—just before the masked figure lunged—I saw letters etched into the plastic base.
Three sets. Three initials.
NR. WG. RH. North Ridge. Willow Glen. Radley Hospital.
The facilities. All tied to the same thread.
And now I know whoever was up there wasn’t just watching. They were delivering a message.