Chapter 24 Avery
Avery
This is how we die.
Apparently.
Which is extremely disappointing.
I’m not saying that I can think of a better way to die.
In fact, I like to think my logical approach to most things in life shows a decided effort to stay alive.
But now I know I’m going to die of my own stubbornness and, fine, my own stupidity.
Which is not fair. Because I am, based on all numerical points that matter, very smart.
And yet what most people will learn about me is that I, Avery Winslow, chose to stay in a murder house where the murderer had apparently not yet vacated the premises. Because I thought I could survive by sheer will.
“Didn’t you check the locks?” I whisper to Caulder, who’s standing as still as a statue next to me, listening for another sound.
“All of them,” Caulder replies, keeping his voice down. “They’re all still locked.”
“And he’s not in any of the rooms?”
“Every single one down here is empty,” he says.
I force myself to breathe, trying to convince myself not to go over the deep end.
“Maybe he isn’t dead,” I say, trying not to sound hysterical. “Maybe Emerson just left. We don’t know that anything actually happened to him.”
Caulder looks back at me, grim determination etched on his face.
“We do know that someone killed Mr. Jay,” he says. “And they tried to kill Emerson and Lucas. You’re right. Maybe Emerson’s not dead. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.”
His words send a shiver down my spine.
“Get the kettle,” he says. “There’s still hot water. We see someone we don’t recognize come around the corner, throw the whole thing at them, okay? I’ll fight them off after that.”
I feel like he’s giving me and my aim a lot of credit, especially considering the fact that he’s literally a pitcher. But I grab the kettle anyway and return to Caulder’s side.
“Right,” he says. “We’ll check the upstairs together and—”
Thump. Thump thump.
Both Caulder and I turn back to the kitchen, to where the sound registered even clearer than before. Without thinking, I step closer to him, and with one move, he pushes me behind him completely. I’m nearly flush against his back, breathing hard, holding the kettle out so I don’t burn him.
“Avery,” he says, tone soft and urgent. “They’re not inside the house. They’re…”
Along the side. I realize it the same time he does. The persistent thump of someone hitting the side of the house. Footsteps, too.
“It could be Emerson,” I say, voice shaking. “Or the others?”
“It could be someone else, too,” Caulder says. “We can’t take any chances.”
I swallow at that reality. If it’s the killer, do they know it will be two against one? Will they care, or will they kill us just like they killed Mr. Jay? Like they attacked Lucas and Emerson?
Which is why we need to move. Why we should move. Why we have to move.
But we don’t.
Caulder’s waiting for something. But what?
And then, I realize what he’s looking at. The window. It’s stained glass, distorting the outside world ever so slightly. As the thumps get closer, Caulder’s gaze remains fixed ahead.
Then, a hooded shadow crosses over us—and I have to bite back a scream.
“New plan,” Caulder says. “Come on.”
Before I can process, Caulder’s hand is around my wrist, yanking me with him as he runs out of the kitchen. I clutch the kettle tight in my other hand as we rocket around the corner. And it hits me where he’s taking us.
The room where Caulder and I spent our seven minutes.
Just as we reach the threshold, I hear the sound of a knob jiggling.
Of someone trying to get in the front door.
I want to scream, but Caulder’s practically hurtling me forward.
We’re skirting the hallway, darting along the edge, bare feet sliding over the hardwood floors.
I see the heavy door, and then Caulder’s throwing it open, shoving us inside before snapping the lock shut.
It’s the first time I’ve tried to inhale since hearing the noise outside, and I find that I’m wheezing, clutching my knees. There’s that same rich mahogany smell in here as earlier, except now it feels like I’m choking on it.
“Avery,” Caulder’s whispering. “Avery, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
I drop the kettle, but I don’t even have the breath to answer. I feel like I’m underwater, gasping for air, but there’s none that I can find. No sweet exhale to take because I’m suffocating.
“Avery,” Caulder says, and I don’t think he’s ever said my name so many times. I don’t know what to make of it. Can’t focus on anything except fighting to get air into my lungs.
“You—” I try to say, but his eyes flare wide, and he holds up a hand. He goes to the door, presses his ear to it.
“Someone’s out there,” he whispers, and even if there isn’t panic in his voice, there’s fear. “They’re in the house.”
I try to swallow the air, but it’s no use.
Caulder turns around, concern gripping his features.
Because I can’t help the horror that’s latched on to me, that’s immobilized me, and I’m going to get us killed.
Maybe he’ll fling me out of the room to give himself time.
I wait for him to do that, but instead, he crosses back, drops to his knees beside me, and presses a calloused fingertip to my lips.
The touch is so hard and soft all at once that it shocks me into something that resembles breathing.
“Avery,” he says, voice a low rumble that matches the thunder outside. “I need you to try to breathe in through your nose and hold it in your stomach, okay? Hold it there.”
They’re my words from earlier said back to me, but wholly different because he’s saying them.
His eyes are fastened on mine, and his face is so, so much closer than it’s ever been.
Lashes that are unfairly long. Light brown hair that’s wavier than usual—is the rain to blame?
A scar on his jaw that I remember him getting when we were riding our bikes through the neighborhood, a bright white slash against his suntanned skin.
A slightly crooked edge to his nose. His fingertip that was on my lip falls, but his gaze stays steady.
“Inhale,” he tells me. He takes my wrist in his hand, thumb pressing against the underside. Guiding my breaths, I realize. “Exhale,” he says, releasing the pressure of his thumb. “Come on, Avery.”
I try as the footsteps get closer outside the door, then farther away, then above us. Moving through the house. Upstairs, doors start to slam open, then shut, then open, then shut.
“Inhale,” Caulder presses. “Exhale.”
And this time, I do. I suck in a breath, then force it out again. I shake in Caulder’s arms, but it starts to slow. I exhale. I repeat, again and again. My heart still hammers, but I’ve got control of my breathing again.
Just as a hand rattles the doorknob, finding it locked.
“Please be Emerson,” I whisper. “Please.”
Caulder lets me go, padding over to the old wooden desk behind us.
He gingerly pulls open its drawers as the knob continues to rattle.
There’s the sound of footsteps again, and for a wild moment, I think the killer’s leaving, that they didn’t find us after all.
But then they’re back, and the knob shakes harder.
“They’re trying to pick it,” I whisper, horror laced through every syllable.
“Here,” Caulder says, matching my low voice. “Take this.”
He’s holding up something long and slender he’s pulled out of the desk. I do a double take trying to place it. It looks almost like a small sword.
“Letter opener,” Caulder says. “You get them with this, and I’ll tackle them from the side.”
I stare at it, then at him. A letter opener. But what weapons does the killer have? What’s a letter opener going to do against—
The door flies open, revealing a silhouetted figure standing just outside the room.
They’re shorter than I imagined, but I don’t waste a second.
I run forward, letter opener hoisted, and slash at our attacker.
There’s a cry of pain as I throw the attacker to the floor.
I trip over something—them?—as I race through the door, still slashing.
Until suddenly, Caulder grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me back, telling me to stop.
And that’s when I realize who our attacker is. I run to the light switch and flip it, and abruptly the room is aglow with the soft light of the glass chandelier above.
“Ms. Dorman?” I ask, staring at her clutching her side on the floor.
Her eyes are wide, her arms bloody from where I’ve slashed her with the letter opener. Her voice is raw and ragged when she speaks.
“What the hell have you done?”