Chapter 29
Hell Has a Door
Summer
Hands tear at me before the word is even out of my mouth.
“Okay.”
That’s all it takes.
My scalp screams as fingers twist into my hair, yanking me down the stairs so hard my knees buckle. My bare feet skid across tile, then scrape raw against gravel. I can’t see Constance or Adelaide anymore—I hear them though, muffled shouts cracking through gags.
Their voices stab into me deeper than any knife. They drag me through the hall, and I see Officer Haywood, slumped against the wall, a gun in his hand and a hole in his chest. Smoke still rises from the open cavity, and the smell— blood, burnt hair, rotting meat all combined into one sour scent.
The night is black and wide and cruel. Waiting at the edge of the driveway is the SUV. Black paint, black windows, a beast crouched in the dark with its mouth open.
I’m shoved inside. My shoulder slams against metal, pain biting up my arm. The stench hits instantly—cigarettes, stale sweat, leather that’s soaked up too much history.
The locks drop down. That sound is louder than the slam of the door. Louder than my heartbeat that booms in my chest.
I’m pinned between bodies, knees jammed into my thighs, a gun resting casual against my side as if it belongs there. The weight of it is worse than the cold. Worse than the stink.
I can’t breathe. My chest tries, ribs wrenching apart, but the air tastes poisoned.
The SUV hums to life. Gravel crunches. My stomach tips as the house slides away behind us, shrinking, shrinking—until it’s gone.
And that’s when the real pain starts.
It isn’t knives or fists. It’s in my head. The moment Jacob pulls into the drive, he’s going to know something’s wrong. He’s going to see Constance and Adelaide bound and gagged. He’s going to see blood smeared on the en-suite tile. He’s going to realize I’m not there.
I see it in my mind—his face shattering.
My throat closes around a sob. I bite down hard, clench my jaw until my teeth ache. I can’t cry. If I cry, they win.
“Sensitive,” one of them mutters.
The other drags on his cigarette, exhales into the stale air. Smoke curls and twists, stinging my eyes until they water. No one says Jacob’s name. No one needs to. He’s the ghost in the backseat with me, the one thing tethering me to the world.
And then— “Good girl. You came without so much as a scream.”
His words are low, deadly. And that voice. Jackson’s voice sends a shiver crawling through my core.
The car bumps over a pothole, jolting me forward. My knees scrape against vinyl. The gun digs harder into my ribs, and I hold my breath, waiting for the bang that doesn’t come.
The SUV settles back into a steady growl, chewing up the miles, carrying me further from Jacob with every heartbeat.
And still—no one talks.
Not like men. Not like humans. Just fragments. Laughter. Snorts. The kind of sounds wolves make before they eat.
My body feels wrong, too big and too small at once. My skin doesn’t fit anymore. I keep thinking if I just move, if I just shift an inch, I might slip out of myself altogether and leave this shell behind.
I press my forehead against the glass. Cold seeps into my skull, numbing. Outside there’s nothing—fields, trees, shadows layered over shadows. The world looks empty, like it’s already written me off.
But Jacob will come.
I whisper it in my head, over and over, timing the words with my breaths.
Jacob will come. Jacob will come. Jacob will come.
But the SUV doesn’t slow.
And Jackson doesn’t speak again.
The SUV rocks around a bend. My shoulder scrapes the door. My palms itch for Jacob’s grip, Jacob’s steadiness, Jacob’s voice telling me what to do.
Another drag of smoke. Another laugh. Then—Jackson finally speaks again.
“Funny thing,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I thought you’d put up a fight.”
Heat floods my face. My nails dig into the vinyl seat.
“But you just walked out,” he laughs, a deep, guttural sound.
The others snicker, low and evil.
“Don’t mistake her, boss” he says. “I bet she’s got claws.”
“I know,” Jackson replies, smooth as honey laced with glass. “But claws are nothing if they don’t draw blood.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. His words crawl over me, hot and cruel, seeping under my skin like poison.
“The sheriff’s not coming.”
I snap my head around before I can stop myself. His eyes catch mine—blue, bright, merciless. And he smiles.
“He’s already lost.” A pause. “You know what fascinates me, Summer?” he asks. “Choice. People always think they have one. Like you, back in that bathroom. Thought you were saving those girls.” He flicks the bud of his cigarette out of the window then turns back to look at me.
My chest locks tight. My pulse slams so hard it aches in my teeth.
He leans into me, taking up too much space. I don’t have to look to know his face is close. His breath touches the side of my neck, hot and sour with smoke.
“But you didn’t save them. Did you?” His tone curls, almost gentle. “You just postponed it. The same way daddy’s death was postponed. It’s a shame your mother was there. I didn’t want her—not really. Too old to sell. Too ugly to fuck.”
I bite my lip until the skin splits. He wants me to answer. He wants me to break my vow of silence.
Jackson doesn’t let up.
“And those two girls… they’ll still die—they know too much.
You just won’t be there to see it. And you’ll never know when.
That’s the worst part, isn’t it? You’ll picture it every night.
Them screaming. Them dying. And you’ll wonder if it happened already.
Or if it’s happening right then. While you’re locked in a room, praying your sheriff still cares. ”
I squeeze my hands into fists in my lap, nails carving crescents into my palms. I don’t want to imagine it, but I do. Constance’s big eyes, wide with terror. Adelaide’s hair yanked, her throat cut open while I sit here useless. My stomach twists so hard I gag.
The man beside me laughs under his breath.
Jackson keeps going, unhurried.
“Thing is, you think you made a sacrifice,” he hums, his tone soft as he reaches to stroke a hand over my shoulder. “That’s sweet. That’s noble. But you don’t get to make noble choices in my world. Every choice is a trap. A leash. And you just put the collar on yourself.”
I don’t answer, don’t shrug him away, I just stare at my reflection in the window — pale skin, hair falling in my face, eyes hollow. A woman I almost don’t recognize. A woman Jacob promised he’d protect.
Jacob.
He’ll come. He’ll come. He’ll come.
The mantra stutters now, tripping over itself. Jackson’s voice gnaws at the edges.
“You think Jacob’s strong?” he asks suddenly, like he’s plucked the thought right out of me. “That uniform makes him something more than a man? It doesn’t. He’s just meat with a badge. And meat rots.”
“Shut up.”
The words rip out before I can stop them. Small. Shaky. But they’re there.
Jackson laughs softly, the sound like broken glass underfoot.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “I was waiting for her.”
His hand moves fast. Fingers tighten on my shoulder as he pulls me, forcing me to face him. His eyes burn blue in the dim light, bright as the flame he wants me to walk into.
“Don’t tell me to shut up,” he says, low and rough. “Not unless you want to lose your tongue.”
My lungs claw for air. My jaw aches under his grip. But I don’t look away. If I look away, I lose.
He shoves me back against the seat. My skull cracks against the window, stars bursting in my vision. The others laugh. My throat burns. My eyes sting. I force the tears back.
And Jackson leans away, satisfied. He lights a cigarette like he didn’t just crush me in his hand. Smoke swirls, thick and choking, filling the SUV until every breath tastes like ash.
“Jacob will find me.” My voice is raw, hoarse. But steady.
Jackson exhales smoke toward the roof, lazy and amused.
“Jacob will die trying.” He laughs. “You know what the best part is?” His voice is a snake winding closer. “You’ll hate me. You’ll fight me. And then, piece by piece, you’ll need me. You’ll beg for my attention. My approval. My touch. That’s how this works. That’s how Jacob did it, right?”
My mouth floods with bile. I swallow it back, choking on it.
“Once I’ve broken you,” Jackson breathes, “you won’t remember he ever existed.”
Headlights sweep across corrugated steel. Not a home. Not even a ruin. A warehouse. A place built to store cargo, not people. And yet it’s waiting for me like a coffin with its lid already half-open.
The engine dies. And the driver steps out.
He slams his door and comes to open ours.
Child-locked I presume, designed to stop me from trying to escape.
But I wasn’t stupid enough to even try. The cold night air pours in before I can brace for it.
A hand fists around my bicep and yanks me out into the gravel.
My knees hit jagged stone, skin tearing through thin fabric.
I don’t make a sound. Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because I won’t give them my pain.
The warehouse looms closer with every drag of their hands on my arms. Its steel siding is new—too new. I catch it in the light, panels without rust, bolts that still gleam. Fresh padlocks on the side doors.
The main entrance yawns open with a groan, metal on metal.
A stench rushes out—bleach and sweat and something underneath both, sour and alive.
My stomach rolls, bile working its way up my throat, leaving me no choice but to throw up into the gravel.
Donnie and Vince laugh at me, but Jackson hands me a handkerchief.
I wipe my mouth with it, then throw it back at him, hitting his chest before he catches it— stopping it from landing in the dirt.
He shakes his head, then clicks his fingers and gestures toward the entrance. A hand finds my arm again and pulls me toward the open doors.