An hour passes and then another. Every few seconds, I look down at my phone, hoping somehow my service will return, but no matter where I'm standing, there's nothing. No connection to the outside world.
Another hour passes, and then a fourth. The day is slipping past. I wonder if anyone has noticed I'm gone. LaRoche told me to leave. Maybe not hearing from me or seeing me will tell him I did what he asked rather than raise any alarm.
The fifth hour is coming to a close when I hear a sound above me. My heart jumps. The sound of footsteps on the stairs right outside the door is loud in my ears. The doorknob turns impossibly, torturously slow. I duck into the dark corner behind the Christmas tree. Out of sight. A scented ornament tucked deep into the branches is old and nearly dry, but gives off the very faint scent of pine, and I find refuge in it. From this vantage point, I can watch the door.
The door opens, and Jake's tall silhouette appears in the doorway. His expression is frozen and unreadable as he turns his head slowly, sweeping his eyes across the entire room. I stay perfectly still, holding my breath and keeping my hands away from the tree, so I don't accidentally shake it. One hand keeps the door propped open as he looks around. It's only a few steps away. If I can distract him and move fast enough, I can get past him through the door and out of the basement.
Moving as carefully as I possibly can, I slip one of the ornaments off the nearest tree branch. When his head turns in the opposite direction, I throw the ornament to the other side of the basement. It smashes against the wall in an impossibly loud shatter, and Jake's head snaps toward it. He takes a step in the direction of the sound but hesitates. His gaze scours the room again, searching each of his displays with the familiar, scrutinizing eye of an artist and the exacting precision of a butcher.
I inch around to the side of the tree to put myself in a better position to run for the door. Fear creates droplets that slide down my face like ice and pool in my palms as I ready my shaking body for the sprint. My phone tucked away in my pocket to free both of my hands; I release the old metal hook on the top of another ornament. This time I aim for the corner of the room diagonal from him. I throw it, but it doesn't sail directly into the wall the way I intended. Instead, it hits the game board set up on the table and sends pieces skittering down onto the floor.
Jake draws in a sharp breath and takes a protective step toward the scene. That movement is my cue. I dart out from behind the tree, heading for the door.
But Jake has already stepped away and released it, allowing it to swing shut.
I throw my body toward it. I just need to get out. It doesn't matter how. I hit the ground and scramble toward the opening in the door. A second later, the door crushes down on my hips, sending a sharp pain through me.
His rough hands grab my ankles. I cry out, thrashing against Jake's grip. I take hold of the doorknob and use it for leverage to pull myself up, but his hand moves to my thigh, keeping me from moving the rest of the way out of the door. I snap my elbow back, striking him as hard as I can. In the brief second his hold on me loosens, I try to shove myself the rest of the way through the door. I know he has a key, but all I need is a chance.
I don't get it. The door falls on my fingers, crushing them. I scream and pull my hand back, making the door shut and lock. Pressing my hands flat to the door, I drop my forehead against it and let out a sob.
Jake's hand runs up my thigh and onto my hip, then traces its way over my waist until it brushes my hair away from my neck so he can touch a kiss to my sweaty skin.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Don't touch me,” I say, my voice calm and even.
I don't want him to mistake for a second what I'm saying to him.
“But, Emma, I'm so happy you're here,” he croons.
I almost don't recognize his voice. It sounds different than it ever has, but I can't put my finger on exactly why.
“Let me out, Jake.”
“I can't. I've been waiting too long to have you here with me,” he says.
The door remains firmly closed, but he at least relents and steps back from me so I can turn around. A large bandage wrapped around his arm has tinges of red at the edges. Despite everything, a surge of worry rushes up in my chest. I'm sickened by my own reaction.
“The blood in the bar,” I say, gesturing with my eyes toward the bandage.
Jake nods and runs his hand along it.
“I've been slowly collecting it for a while now, but I knew I needed as much fresh as I could spare when it was time. But don't worry, the cut will heal. I've gotten very skilled at stitching up wounds.”
The comment makes bile roll into my throat.
“There was too much blood,” I tell him. “Everyone thinks you’re dead.”
He smiles. “They do? That's perfect. It's exactly what I want.”
“I don't understand. Why fake your own death? Eventually, you're going to be found,” I say.
“That's just what I intend to happen. But I won’t need to be found. I'm going to make it easy on everybody and show back up in Feathered Nest in a few days.”
“Why? Why would you go through all this if you were just going to give yourself up?” I ask.
I shift to the side, and my crushed hand hits the door. Hissing at the pain, I pull it against my chest and cover it protectively with the other. Jake rushes up to me; concern etched on his face.
“Oh, sweetheart. Does it hurt? I'm so sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen. Nothing was supposed to happen to you. I would never want to hurt you,” he says. “That was never what I wanted.”
“You shot at me,” I spit. “You tried to kill me.”
“No,” he frowns, shaking his head. “No, I never would have let you get hit. Those bullets were nowhere near you.”
“Then why?” I ask.
“To keep you guessing. So you felt like you were on the right track. From the very beginning, I knew you were suspicious of LaRoche. It was perfect. I couldn't have even planned it that well. That's what all this,” he gestures at the bandage on his arm, “was for. You weren't supposed to come after me. You were supposed to be in Feathered Nest with the others, searching for me, and be the one I dragged myself to when I escaped.”
“Escaped?” I ask.
“Yes. You see, when you showed up, it was like I was being given a new chance. I could have a life again. Have everything I've wanted. But that meant ending the mystery for good. When you started digging around into it, the ideal solution just showed itself. If you already thought LaRoche was responsible, I would make sure everyone agreed with you. The dots were already there. I just had to help connect them.”
“You didn't write Cristela in your notebook the last night she was at the bar,” I say. “But you drove her.”
Jake laughs. “No one else knows that. How do you?”
“The piece of metal under your passenger seat. It snagged my pants the day we went to the cemetery. When I was looking at a picture of Cristela's body, I noticed a cut on the back of her leg in the same spot. She caught her leg on that piece of metal when you dragged her out of the car and tied her up in the woods.”
“It would have been so much easier for her if she had just cooperated. She would have been perfect,” he says. “But it turns out she still was. Just for a different purpose than I could have imagined.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, she wasn't. At least, not that night. She decided to do away with her baby. It was too much of a hassle for her, and she didn't want to have to deal with raising a child she didn't want alongside someone like LaRoche. She confided in me when she first found out. Of course, I told her I thought she should keep it. That she would enjoy being a mother, no matter what. But she didn't listen. That made it easier for me to choose her. If she hadn't made that choice, she would still be alive.”