In under a heartbeat, he was on me, one hand on the center of my chest as he reached up into a drawer. The knives—holy shit, he was going for the knives. “This is going to be messy. Hard to clean up after. Maybe pinning this shit on Cole isn’t going to work. Probably going to have to leave town.”
I bucked my hips as I slid my hand along the floor. My fingers brushed the cool handle—the skillet, the iron skillet. So close.
“When I’m done with you, I’m gonna dump your body right where it always belonged,” he said, pulling a knife out of the drawer. Light glinted off the blade. “I think that would make Dad happy.”
“Your father was a twisted fuck,” I spat, swinging the cast-iron skillet with all my strength. “And so are you.”
The crack was like a shot of thunder, echoing throughout the kitchen, and shot down my arm. Jason yelped as his grip loosened. I wrenched free, flipping over and scuttling on my knees. Pushing up, I whipped around, facing him.
Wild, wide eyes fixed on mine. Eyes I’d once trusted, was familiar with. Eyes I even loved in a little way. Eyes now full of hatred and fury. Slowly, like water easing between rocks, the emotion faded from them.
Jason shifted to the side, his left leg going out on him first. He went down to his side, arms outstretched toward me, still coming at me, still wanting to hurt, but I was out of reach.
He was never going to get to me again.
Jason shifted forward, hitting the floor face-first. His body twitched once, twice, and then stilled.
Breathing heavy, I stepped back as I lowered my aching arm. A faint stream of blood seeped across the floor, sinking into the crevices between the tiles.
It was him.
It always had been him.
My stomach churned as bile rose so swiftly I doubled over, vomiting. I’d trusted him. He’d helped me afterward, telling me I was safe, after he’d done horrible, horrible things to me. My entire body burned. I’d trusted him with my mother and my friends. I’d trusted him when he—
Straightening, I clenched the pan. Pull it together, Sasha, pull it together. I limped back, my gaze darting to where Miranda lay motionless. I needed to check on her, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off Jason.
I opened my mouth to call her name, but only a hoarse croak came out. I swallowed the burn and tried again. “Miranda?”
When I glanced over at her, she hadn’t moved. What if she—no. I cut those thoughts off. She wasn’t dead. There was no way. I couldn’t let myself believe that. I needed to focus on getting help.
Face throbbing, I scanned the disaster that was the kitchen for my cellphone. Pots were everywhere. Shards of ceramic. Spilled rice. Limping toward the counter, I held on to the cast-iron skillet. I eased around the island, getting closer to Miranda as I kept my eyes on Jason.
Kneeling, I placed a hand on her chest. “Miranda?” After a moment, I felt her chest rise. “Miranda, honey, I need you to get up.”
A soft moan drew my attention. Jason wasn’t moving. I took a risk and looked at Miranda. Her eyelids fluttered.
Hope sparked. “Miranda—”
A roar blasted through the room, and my head jerked up. Jason was on his feet, arm and knife raised in the air. He raced toward me. My heart felt like it stopped in my chest as I lifted the skillet, fully preparing to bash his skull into the rest of the wall. I swung, but Jason sidestepped at the last second, and I hit air.
I cried out as pain shot up my arm and into my shoulder. The skillet slipped from my fingers, clanging off the floor. Before I could react, another burst of pain exploded alongside my head. My legs gave out once more and I hit the floor. For a horrifying moment, I thought he’d stabbed me in the head, but it had been his fist.
Jason grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked me onto my feet. “You think we’re done? That I’m going to go down that easy? Oh, fuck no.” He circled an arm around my neck and started walking. “I’m not going to die here and neither are you.”
Dazed, I stumbled over my own feet as he half dragged, half carried me toward the back door. Instinct screamed at me to fight back, but I was having a hard time getting the message from my brain to my limbs.
Shoving open the back door, he veered to the left, toward the staff staircase. I tried to grab the frame of the door, but he pulled me through. All it took was seconds. Seconds. That was it, and we were in front of the cellar door.
The scent of earth and dampness invaded my senses as he forced me into the main cellar. I grabbed at his arm, my nails digging into his shirt as he continued in the darkness and through another door—the wine cellar. The light was on, and I suddenly thought of what James had said about the light being on down here.
I struggled in his hold. “What are you—?”
“I didn’t say you could talk.” Reaching around me, he shoved aside a rack of wine. The bottles rattled as the entrance to the unused part of the cellar came into view. “Ever been down here?” he said.
I didn’t get a chance to respond.
Jason shoved me into the dark room. I fell forward, blindly throwing out my hands. I went down, my palms smacking off the dirt-packed floor. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
“You haven’t.” He walked around me, confident in where he was stepping. “No one comes into this part. Probably should’ve. Too late now.”
My breath caught as a light came on suddenly, flooding the space with dull yellow light. I sucked in dusty, dank air and shrank back as my gaze flew over the damp bricks and the floor.
There was a crumpled body lying in the corner, lying on his side. I recognized the old, worn flannel shirt. “James!” I cried out.
Jason blocked me, standing between us. “Don’t even think about moving.”
“Is he . . . is he dead?” The words tumbled out as I stared around Jason’s legs. I didn’t see him move.
“I don’t know. Took the knock to the head like a champ,” Jason replied without an ounce of compassion. “I like the guy, but he came down here this morning, poking around. My fault. Should’ve turned that damn light off. If he isn’t dead, he’ll be dead soon enough.”
My God . . .
Praying that James was okay and that he would somehow survive this, I looked around the room. Rope hung from the old metal hooks embedded deep into the stone. Some of it was frayed. Pieces had rust-colored splotches. Scratches dug deep into sections of the stone, as if an animal . . . or a person had attempted to claw their way out.
And they had.
Oh God, someone had been down here, and they’d scratched at the stone in desperation. What appeared to be chips of fingernails were broken off in the marks, and the ground had stains, dark and muddy-looking stains. Stuck to the wall, above the horrifying marks, were items. A floral scarf. A badge. A woman’s blouse—
“Like what I’ve done with the place?” Jason asked.
I saw it—saw it all—and it reminded me of another time when the light had finally come on, and I saw the horror around me, the horror I’d been held captive in. This wasn’t just a cellar. This was a tomb.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Jason had been holding them here, those poor women, killing them in the cellar under the Scarlet Wench.
Chapter 29