There were two pouches like this, stacked full of money. Right. This made sense, if I thought like my mother. Without electricity, there would be no electronic banking. She was just preparing for everything.
The third pouch looked much emptier, and I expected a few stacks of bills in that, too.
But there weren’t. There were passports.
Our birth certificates and other personal documents were kept in a fireproof safe in Mom’s office upstairs. Maybe these were copies, for safekeeping. Or maybe these were the things from my mom’s previous life, long ago—before she was taken.
I’d never had a passport. Where would I go? I was barely allowed the ten miles to my school. And I’d never had any interest in going any farther.
I opened the passport on top, saw my mother’s picture staring back at me, with a plain white wall in the background. But this wasn’t her old one from when she was a teenager. This was new. Her hair, long and straight, parted harshly down the middle. And that shirt—I knew that shirt. Plain black with a scalloped collar. I’d ordered it for her two Christmases ago. I checked the date, and sure enough, it was issued just over a year ago.
But then my eye caught a mistake. The name. Amy Douglas.
Maybe she’d had to change it before—before she became Mandy Thomas—and never told me. She’d changed it, after she escaped, so reporters would leave her alone. So we would be free from the horrors of her past: the infamous kidnapping, her abusive home, a life that had gone from bad to much worse. She’d given me the last name Thomas when I was born, and she changed hers to match it as soon as she could. I never knew her any other way. Maybe this was a mistake.
I pulled out the second passport, expecting a corrected version.
My fingers tingled. The face staring back was my own.
The girl looked happy in front of the white wall behind her—our own living room, the wall between the two curtained windows. This picture was taken the first day I went to high school. I remembered my mother making a big deal out of it—All mothers have shots of their child’s first day of school. Come on, let’s do it! Acting too cheerful—faking it, for both of our benefit. She’d stood close, snapped the photo, said, Mug shot acquired, and I’d never seen the picture again.
And now here it was, beside a girl’s name that was not mine. Lauren Douglas. Born in late July, a few months before my own birthday. The passports trembled in my hand.
“What is it?” Ryan asked, searching through the boxes near the doorway.
“Nothing,” I said, storing it all away. The room was buzzing again, but it looked like I was the only one who heard it. “Just our documents for safekeeping.” I replaced the missing tile, smoothed the rug back over it.
Ryan went back to working methodically, his hands not shaking with fear. Like maybe there wasn’t someone just outside the gates who had done something to my mother. Like we weren’t trapped inside the house, a house set up to protect us because she knew it would happen.
And now there were passports in the floor—a version of us I didn’t understand.
He repacked a box, slid it back my way. Opened another. “How about this?” he asked, holding the radio over his head in triumph.
It was old and brown, with a rabbit-ear antenna and a black dial that moved a red line between stations. He flipped the power switch, and static cut through the room at a loud volume. Static, and music, and radio stations. “It doesn’t work both ways,” he said.
“God, this is all useless,” I said. When what I really meant was I am useless.
But Ryan was looking over my shoulder, his gaze fixed on the monitors with his head cocked to the side.
“What?” I asked, twisting around to see.
“I saw something,” he said. He stood, his shoulders turned tense, and he stepped closer to the security screens. He reached a finger up, touching a dark corner. “There. I saw…”
He turned back around, and I saw his throat move. His eyes were wide, and I reached for his shoulder, like I had in the car—
And then I heard it. A dull thud. Something that seemed to reverberate through my bones. A sharp hiss, like air leaking from a balloon, and all the lights went dark.
I groped for the flashlights that were somewhere between us on the cold basement floor. I couldn’t see anything—not even Ryan’s shape in the darkness. The static of the radio grew louder as all the electrical appliances in the house wound down to silence. No air circulating through the vents, or coolant in the refrigerator, or the faint buzz of the lights. Just the crackle of an out-of-tune station, Ryan’s breathing, and my own.
My hand found Ryan’s leg before the flashlight, and he gripped my arm, flicking on a flashlight with his other hand. He shined it in my face, and I held up my arm to block the light.
“What’s happening?” he whispered.
But he had to already know. It’s what my mother had always feared. It’s what she prepared me for. “Someone’s coming,” I whispered.
I felt his breath, warm against my face, coming sharp and fast.
The power was off. And the alarm—the alarm was off, and the gates could be forced open, and there would be no sound—no cry for help.
“The generator,” I said, moving closer to the light, keeping my voice low. “The backup electricity will turn on in a few minutes.”
But without electricity, there was no current running through the wire atop the gate. The spikes didn’t matter. The gate lock could be disengaged with a few tools, the doors forced apart. Whoever was out there could slip through the gap, and then all that remained were the walls of the house itself.
The generator had to kick in first. It had to kick in soon.
“How many?” Ryan said. The light jerked across the boxes of the basement as he stood. “How many minutes?”
“Three,” I said, already counting down in my head from 180.
He swung the light to the stairs.
There were ways in; even I knew this. We had gates and locks and bars and cameras—but beyond that, there were window seals that could be broken. Latches that could be overcome.
We couldn’t see what was happening out there, not until the generator kicked in.
The not knowing was the worst. My hands groped across the cold, dusty ground. The seconds slowly ticked down—150.
Come on, come on. My hand connected with the other flashlight, and I headed for the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Ryan asked, grabbing my hand. I felt my blood pulsing, my heart racing.
A hundred twenty. Two more minutes. Her voice in my ear, a lifetime of education. You have to pay attention. “I have to see,” I said, weaving around a stack of boxes. Ryan was close on my heels. I spun around at the base of the stairs, realizing I’d left the safe room door open. It felt unnatural, and like it was calling to us—something that wasn’t meant to be left exposed. Like it all might disintegrate in the fresh air, paper turned to ash.
A hundred ten. No time. The stairs creaked as we made our way to the first floor. I ran my flashlight quickly across the walls. Everything was still, and safe. The curtains were pulled tight, and there were no lights—not even from the clock over the stove or the glow of the alarm panel. Eighty more seconds.
I turned off my flashlight, crouching low and peering out from between the curtains—but it was impossible to see anything clearly from this distance. It was impossible to make out any shapes in the dark, other than the wall, the trees, darker than the night sky.
But then the shadows shifted, or something moved, and I saw the faintest light near the back gate. The beam from a penlight, maybe, as someone worked at the manual locks of the gate, trying to disengage the bars from the concrete base.
Sixty. One minute. “I’m going back down,” I said. “To arm the gates as soon as the power turns back.”