And sometimes dads make mistakes. Truly awful, horrible mistakes. It’s taken me a long time to forgive mine. Because if there’s one thing this place has taught me, it’s that no matter how bad something seems at the time, it could always be worse.
I’m hoping that being moved means the monster trusts me a little. And that wherever he takes me will be easier to escape from. I can keep pretending as long as I have to. All I need is one instant when I’m not being watched. If there’s ever someone who reads this, remember that. There might be only one chance. Any risk is worth taking if it gets you home.
Whitney wasn’t aware she was crying until the tear traced down her cheek. She reached up an arm, wiped it on her sleeve. If I get away, I’ll send someone back for you, she thought fiercely. She wanted to believe that Kelsey was still alive somewhere. The thought helped summon the courage to carry out her plan tonight.
Slowly she rolled up the pages. Replaced them under the floorboard and started toward the shower to return the screw. Then she thought better of it. Instead, she tucked it into her bra between her breasts, the flat head secured by the bottom band, the end pointing upward. There was no reason to put it off any longer. Her heart started knocking faster in her chest. Going to the edge of the stage, she turned and lowered herself off it, keeping a tight grip on its edge. It was about three feet to the floor. The utter darkness had her pausing to get her bearings. There was another window high in the wall in this area. But the tiny glimmer of light around the curtain didn’t make a dent in the shadows.
There was no use trying the door. Whitney had listened to him turn the lock when he left, as he always did. Instead, she made her way in the darkness until she was touching the table she figured he’d had the computer sitting on. She’d gone through this plan a hundred times in her mind. Pick up the computer and set it gently on the floor. And now . . . her hands searched. Another machine. The projector. There was a neat pile of books on the table that they had sat on, so Whitney swiftly lowered those, as well. Then she reached for both sides of the table and lifted it.
Not so heavy. Awkwardly, she carried it through the darkness to the stage. Leaned the tabletop against it at an angle and then grasped the far legs to lever it upward. Hopping back up on the stage, Whitney carried the table over to the wall beneath the window.
How much noise had she made? She’d been so busy, she’d forgotten to consider it. She paused to listen. Heard nothing. She went and got the backpack she’d fashioned and tied it securely around her neck. Then she retraced her steps and got on top of the table. Moved the curtain aside. Blinked a little at the dim light that streamed in.
The window was a small rectangle, maybe a foot and a half by three feet. The inside was covered with a thick, clear plastic film. But that wasn’t what had Whitney’s stomach plummeting.
He’d nailed it shut.
Tears of frustration threatened. For an instant, she considered putting everything back. Rethinking her plan. But he’d know. He knew everything. Even if she got every single detail right, the rips in the nightgown would have him wondering.
There might be only one chance. It’s worth any risk if it gets you home.
Gritting her teeth, Whitney carefully climbed down and went back to where she’d left the things from the table on the floor. Found the thickest book and carried it to the window. She’d have to break the glass and take the chance that he’d hear it. Which meant she had to work quickly. Maybe she could wiggle through the broken panes before he got downstairs.
First, she ran her fingers over the plastic. Taped on, she discovered. Easy to remove. Rearing back with the arm holding the book, she smashed it against the window, square in the center.
The glass cracked rather than shattered. But even that noise seemed deafening in the surrounding silence. But it wasn’t, she assured herself, repeating the action. Not really. The covering helped muffle the sound. She took a moment then to tear away the two-sided tape that kept the thick plastic in place. Then wrapped it around one hand, which she threaded through the hole she’d made. She pressed her palm against the back of the glass as she worked, knocking out the larger shards until there were only tiny teeth left all around the frame.
There was an outside window, as well. Also nailed shut. Whitney worked more quickly now, stifling the noise as she had with the first one. Finally, she was loosening the outside layer of sheeting free from the window. And then frigid air kissed her face. She opened her mouth, taking a greedy gulp. It tasted of freedom.
She set the book down on the table, and then reached up to tear the outside plastic free so she could wrap it around her other hand. Then, palms placed on the windowsill, she gave a mighty jump.
Her arms quivered, and for a moment, she thought she would fall. The screw gouged her skin, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. The muscles in her arms quivered as she struggled to pull herself up far enough to get her elbows on the sill. Used them to leverage the rest of her body as she squeezed herself an inch at a time through the tight space. Until she got stuck. Moving side to side, she tried to free herself. The backpack, she thought. There wasn’t enough room for it. Whitney used her teeth to pull the plastic off one hand so she could clumsily untie the nightdress. It fell away, its contents dropping to the floor. She heard the apples thud and roll, and somehow they sounded louder than the glass had breaking.
The noise infused her with panic. Turning back to her task, she shimmied through the opening, uncaring of the glass slicing through the thin tights and leotard to cut her skin. She ignored the sharp point of the screw between her breasts. Fear gave her speed, and moments later, she was pushing through the second window to the frigid ground outside.
She struggled to her feet, aware that blood was trickling down her body in several places. There was a sliver of a moon, sheening the frosted grass with an eerie glisten. Whitney started to run. Not toward the front of the building, but away from it. There were trees in the distance, clustered around the property. Some pines. She’d leave a clear path on the grass, so her best chance was to put as much space between her and this place as possible.
Fear lent flight to her feet as she sped across the slippery ground, which quickly soaked her ballet shoes. She didn’t feel the sticky blood or the cold. There was only evil behind her, and this was the one chance she was going to have for escape.
She was almost at the tree line. The arctic air slashed at her lungs as she gulped it in, turning her insides to ice. Maybe there’d be a house nearby where she could seek help. Or perhaps a road where she could flag down a passing car.