He beckoned me toward the desk.
Mustering some strength, I followed him, belly-crawling across the floor.
He jabbed a finger toward the corner of an area rug.
I lifted it. Saw nothing.
He kept jabbing.
I pulled the rug back farther and finally noticed a ridge on the wooden floor. Adrenaline shot through me, giving me the strength to roll back more of the rug, which revealed a hatch cut into the floorboards.
I tugged on the recessed latch and looked downward into the darkness, barely able to make out a short ladder.
Freedom.
Rolling away from the hatch, I started to crawl back toward Mr. Butterbaugh when Haywood zipped in front of me and pointed to the hatch.
Fighting against the head pain, I whispered, “Mr. Butterbaugh.”
Haywood’s eyes widened, and I realized he hadn’t known I wasn’t alone. By the time I reached Mr. Butterbaugh, tears streamed down my face. I didn’t know how in the world I was going to get him over to the hatch, never mind down it and out to safety.
Calling on every bit of steely reserve I possessed, I grabbed under his arms and tugged backward. I landed flat on my backside. Not giving in, I repeated the process until I was next to the desk, the hatch in sight.
I just needed to rest a bit before the next heave-ho. Close my eyes. Just for a second.
The next thing I knew I was outside in the bright sunshine and someone was shouting my name.
“Carlina Bell Hartwell! You’d better damn well wake up!”
At first I thought it was my mama, because she was the only one who ever said my full name that angrily. Then the fuzziness cleared for just a moment, and I realized it wasn’t my mama at all.
It was Dylan.
Somehow, I’d ended up in his arms, pressed tight against his chest. His heart beat hard and fast against my cheek as I looked up at him.
His green eyes brimmed with tears. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Don’t go quitting on me now, Care Bear.”
I tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. All I wanted to do was sleep. I closed my eyes. It was okay to rest now.
In Dylan’s arms, I knew I’d be safe.
Chapter Fourteen
I’d had to spend the night in the hospital, which was hell on earth for an empath.
Hell. On. Earth.
Which was why I’d been surprised that Delia had voluntarily slept all night in one of the chairs next to my bed.
Dylan had been in the other.
I’d been released at noontime the next day and they had driven me straight home, where I’d taken an extremely long shower in an attempt to cleanse my body of its smoky smell.
An attempt that had failed.
The scent clung relentlessly to my hair, my skin, and I had the uncomfortable notion that it was seeping straight out of my pores.
It was now pushing two o’clock, and I was stretched out on the couch, resting per doctor’s orders.
And hating it.
I was restless, feeling like there were things I needed to do. I didn’t have time for proper recuperation. Today was November first, All Saints’ Day. A day some churches and their congregants celebrated those who had attained sainthood. For me, it marked the rising of more spirits. More ghosts in need of help. The day also signaled that time was running out as well. I had only until eleven fifty-nine tomorrow night to ensure the eternal departure of Haywood, Virgil, and Jenny Jane.
Lying here on this couch wasn’t going to help any of them. Time was not on our side.
“It wasn’t premeditated,” Dylan said. “The Molotov cocktail was made with items found in the Ezekiel kitchen. A milk bottle, kerosene from the lamps on the mantel, a dish towel. Whoever it was must have seen you two together and when you went into the basement, they took action. But who? And why?”
Dylan, Delia, and I were trying to make sense of why someone had wanted to roast Mr. Butterbaugh and me like marshmallows.
“Carly definitely ticked someone off but good,” Delia said, biting back a smile. She was working on my laptop, researching Avery Bryan. Boo lay next to her, his head resting in the crook of her arm.
“That’s nothing new,” Dylan said, kissing my head as he walked into the kitchen.
“Hey!” I protested, my voice raspy from the smoke inhalation. “How do we know Mr. Butterbaugh didn’t tick someone off?”
Delia tipped her head and gave me a wry look. Dylan popped his head out of the kitchen and did the same.
“It’s possible,” I said, sniffing.
“Let’s go over this again.” Dylan brought Delia and me cups of tea.
The tea was supposed to soothe my throat, but I knew a dose of Leilara would have me feeling as good as new in no time. My daddy was dropping off a potion for me any minute now.