“Set her down.” The voice, tinny and harsh, echoed in the narrow hall. Just like in the video. Tiffany’s death song.
Oh no. No, no, no. It couldn’t be. Please, no. She couldn’t die like that. No. Please, God. Not that. Flashes of Tiffany screaming. Bloody bubbles at her nostrils. No. Not like that.
She landed hard on frigid cement. The cold leached into her bones and surrounded her, froze her right through to her organs. Fresh pain spiked through her head, down her arms, her legs, and finally twitched her toes in agony. Her groan stayed trapped inside. Her legs fell to the side. One shoe slid off. Her skirt rucked up beneath her, and her butt screamed from the freezing touch of concrete.
The bulb was overhead, the faces above her elongated in deep shadow. Keys jingled, then chattered in a lock. Sounds of breathing, one fast, one slow and steady.
The door whooshed as it opened. Air rushed out. At floor level, it reeked of damp, mold, and something dead. A scrabbling sound somewhere nearby. Rats. The rest of her body froze.
Another light went on. Max forced her eyes closed against it. “Drag her in.”
Move. Get up. Run. Fight.
Scrambled thoughts, commands, and demands. Her body refused to obey.
Dragged by her arms, she was pulled across the floor. Pebbles bit into her butt. Shock waves raced from her heels to the base of her skull. She almost passed out again, almost lost her Corona on the floor. Their words were lost beneath the ringing in her ears, the renewed pounding in her brain.
Cameron. She choked, sobbed out, though she knew no sound left her immobile lips. Don’t let me die in here with the rats and the monsters.
Cameron. Please. What would he tell her to do? That thought was the only thing she had left to hold onto. What? Stay calm. Be strong. Use your wits. You can win.
The hammering inside her head slowed to a dull throb. Be calm, she repeated. She lay on her side, facing the door. Another bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Blurred figures stood in the doorway. Be strong, she pretended to hear Cameron’s voice. After a moment, she could hear the two. They spoke softly despite the fact that they thought she was unconscious.
“... shouldn’t have brought her here ...”
“... didn’t know what else to do ...”
“... idiot, it should have been Ariel, we agreed ...”
“... sorry ...”
“Stop whining ... what we have to do now, don’t you ...”
“... no, please, we don’t need to kill ...”
Max caught only fragments. What she heard turned her blood to icicles.
“I ... get the equipment ... watch her ...”
“... come with you ... please don’t leave me ...”
“... don’t want any surprises ...”
“... wait—”
The door slammed shut. The sound kicked her in the head, set in like a microphone on reverb. And then she realized the one left behind pounded on the closed door.
“Goddamn it, don’t lock me in here.” Silence. Another round of frustrated, terrified pounding.
They were both trapped.
Max squinted against the throbbing behind her eyes. Her gaze swam. She couldn’t focus. She closed her eyes, swallowed, then opened them again.
A woman. Faded jeans, but definitely a woman’s backside and long shaggy hair. Bad haircut and dull color.
The missing Nadine Johnson. Of course. She’d probably been in the Round Up, watching Jake on the dance floor with another woman. She’d freaked. She’d attacked. Here they were ...
There was no doubt. Max would soon suffer the same fate as Tiffany. Snuff film and all.
Use your wits. She could almost believe Cameron was there, reminding her, pushing her, keeping her alive.
It all made sense. Witt had been right all along. Women killed Tiffany. And Nadine Johnson was one of them.
Jesus Christ, how was she supposed to fight that? She was half-zonked from the blow, her vision foggy, her limbs incapable of responding. Be calm. Be strong. Fucking impossible.
Use your wits. Take stock. Think your way out.
It was a damn sight better than weeping on the cold concrete.
Max could only thank God they hadn’t tied her up. Yet. Her gaze darted around the small room. Racks of wine filled the walls from top to bottom. She remembered the strange circles beneath the blue sheeting in the video. That was no sound baffle. The sheet had been there only to cover the butt end of the wine bottles from the camera’s eye.
Her breath stuck in her throat when she saw the baseball bat in the corner. She heard screaming. Echoes of Tiffany. She prayed they weren’t her own screams. Her lips were frozen solid like blocks of ice.
Jesus. They’d saved it. She thought of the blood, guts, and flesh staining its wood surface and found herself closer to puking than before. Poor Tiffany. Poor Jules. Poor, poor Max.
Cut the goddamn self-pity and move.
God, she was getting good at this Cameron thing. She almost giggled. Hysterically. But she moved.
Use your wits.
Max pushed herself into a sitting position, waited a moment for the dizziness to dissipate. She kicked off her remaining high-heeled pump. “You know ...”