Chapter 5
The dark in the basement was absolute.
The kind of dark that presses against your eyes, that makes you see things that aren’t there.
I sat there for a long time.
Listening.
To the hum of the water heater.
To the faint sound of voices upstairs—too muffled to make out words.
To Noah’s breathing.
Ragged.
Scared.
But steady.
Alive.
That was something.
I tested the ropes again.
Still tight.
The skin on my wrists was raw.
Bleeding a little.
I didn’t care.
I needed to think.
Needed to remember.
What was in this basement?
What could I use?
I’d been down here last Christmas.
Helping Megan get the tree down from the rafters.
There were boxes.
Old boxes.
Christmas stuff.
Old clothes.
Our parents’ things.
And in the far corner—
The workbench.
Dad’s old workbench.
He’d built it himself, years ago, when they first bought the house. It was heavy oak, bolted to the concrete floor. And on it—when I’d been down here last—there had been tools.
Screwdrivers.
Hammers.
A utility knife.
A box cutter.
If I could get to it…
But I was tied to the washing machine.
Ten feet away.
Maybe less.
But ten might as well have been ten miles.
I looked at Noah.
He was staring at me.
Even in the dark, I could see his eyes.
Wide.
Trusting.
I had to get to him first.
Had to get him untied.
He was small.
Wiry.
Maybe he could slip his bonds.
“Noah,” I whispered. “Baby, can you hear me?”
He nodded.
Hard.
“Okay,” I said. “I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?”
Another nod.
“Good. I want you to try to pull your hands out of the rope. Okay? Just wiggle them around. See if you can slip one hand through. Your hands are so small, baby. I bet you can do it.”
I watched him struggle.
He pulled.
Twisted.
Winced.
The rope was too tight.
“Can’t,” he mumbled around the gag.
“Okay,” I said. “That’s okay. Don’t cry. We’ll try something else. What about your feet? Can you move your feet at all? Rock the chair? See if you can tip it over?”
He tried.
The chair wobbled.
Almost went over.
But didn’t.
He was too light.
“Okay,” I said again. My mind was racing. “Okay. New plan. The ropes around your wrists—do they feel loose at all? Even a little?”
He thought about it.
Shook his head.
“Wait,” I said. “The gag. Can you push the gag out with your tongue? Just work it to the side. Spit it out.”
He tried.
His jaw worked.
The gag slipped.
Fell into his lap.
He gasped.
Took huge, ragged breaths.
“Good job, baby,” I whispered. “Good job.”
“Aunt Sarah,” he said. His voice was hoarse from crying. “I want to go home.”
“I know,” I said. “I know you do. And we will. I promise. But I need you to be my helper right now, okay? I need you to be very brave. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now listen. There’s a workbench over there. To your left. Do you see it?”
He squinted into the dark.
“I think so.”
“On that workbench, there are tools. Dad’s old tools. There might be a knife. Or a screwdriver. Something sharp. If you can get to it, you can cut the ropes. Okay? But first, you have to get out of that chair.”
“I can’t,” he said. “The ropes are too tight.”
“Wait,” I said. An idea hit me. Stupid. Desperate. But it was something. “The chair. It’s metal, right? Folding chair? The hinges—are they loose? Can you feel them?”
He wiggled around.
“I think so.”
“Okay. I want you to rock back and forth. As hard as you can. Put all your weight into it. If we can break one of the hinges, the chair will come apart. And then you can get out. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He started rocking.
Back.
Forth.
Back.
Forth.
The chair creaked.
Louder.
Faster.
“Harder, baby,” I whispered. “Come on. You can do it. Harder.”
He put everything he had into it.
His face was tight with effort.
The creaking got louder.
And then—
SNAP.
One of the back legs gave way.
The chair tipped over backward.
Noah hit the concrete floor with a thud.
“Noah!” I hissed. “Are you okay?”
For a second, no answer.
Then—
“Ow,” he said. Small. “My head hurts.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Good. Now—can you get your hands free? The chair broke. The ropes should be looser now.”
I heard him struggling.
Grunting.
And then—
“Yes!” he whispered. “I’m out! Aunt Sarah, I’m out!”
Relief flooded through me so strong I almost cried.
“Good job,” I said. “Good job, baby. I’m so proud of you. Now listen. I need you to go over to the workbench. It’s over there. By the wall. Can you find it?”
“I think so.”
I heard his bare feet pattering on the concrete.
A pause.
“I found it,” he said.
“Good. Now—look on top. Is there anything sharp? A knife? A screwdriver? Anything with a point?”
I heard him rummaging.
“Um… there’s a screwdriver. Flat head. And a… I think it’s a saw. And a hammer.”
“Grab the screwdriver,” I said. “And hurry. They could come down any minute.”
His feet pattered back.
“I’m here,” he said.
“Okay. Now—cut my ropes. The ones around my wrists. Saw back and forth with the flat end. It’s not sharp, but if you work at it, it’ll fray the rope. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I felt the cold metal of the screwdriver against my wrist.
He started sawing.
Awkward.
Slow.
But he was trying.
“That’s it,” I whispered. “Keep going. You’re doing great.”
He sawed.
And sawed.
The rope started to fray.
Little bits of nylon falling onto the concrete.
“Almost there,” I said. “Just a little more. Come on, Noah. You can do it.”
He put his whole arm into it.
And then—
The rope snapped.
My right hand was free.
“Good job!” I whispered. “Now the other one. Hurry.”
He cut the left wrist.
Faster this time.
Knew what he was doing.
It gave.
I was free.
I knelt down and pulled him into my arms.
Held him so tight I was probably hurting him.
But I didn’t care.
“You did it,” I whispered into his hair. “You did it, baby. You saved us.”
He hugged me back.
“Now what?” he said.
“Now,” I said. “We get out of here. The window. The one with the bars. If we can get the bars off, we can climb through. It’s small, but you can fit. And I’ll squeeze. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I stood up.
My legs were stiff.
My head still throbbed.
But I was free.
And I had Noah.
And I had a screwdriver.
We moved to the window.
It was high up.
Near the ceiling.
The bars were set in concrete.
Three of them.
Thick iron.
I’d never get them out with a screwdriver.
But maybe…
The frame.
The window itself was old.
Wooden.
Rotting a little at the corners from moisture.
If I could pry the frame out…
I climbed onto the washing machine.
Reached up.
Jam the screwdriver into the corner of the frame.
Twist.
The wood groaned.
Gave a little.
“Hold the light on it,” I whispered to Noah.
There was a flashlight on top of the dryer. I’d seen it when we first came down. He grabbed it, turned it on, held it steady.
Good kid.
I worked the screwdriver.
Pry.
Twist.
Pull.
A chunk of rotting wood came away in my hand.
Progress.
I kept going.
Five minutes.
Ten.
My arms burned.
My shoulder screamed.
But the frame was coming loose.
Almost there.
Almost—
And then I heard it.
The lock on the basement door.
Click.
Light flooded down the stairs.
I froze.
Noah froze.
The flashlight beam shook in his hand.
Footsteps.
Coming down.
One person.
Not David’s heavy tread.
Not Caroline’s sharp heels.
Softer.
Hesitant.
Megan.
She reached the bottom of the stairs.
Stopped.
Stared.
At me.
Free of my ropes.
Standing on the washing machine.
Screwdriver in hand.
At Noah.
Free.
Flashlight in hand.
For a long second, no one said anything.
Then Megan opened her mouth.
To scream.
To call for David.
I didn’t think.
I jumped off the washing machine.
Crossed the distance between us in two steps.
May you like
And slammed the handle of the screwdriver into the side of her head.
She went down without a sound.
