“Cynthia,” I gagged. The room wavered around me. My heart thudded slower in my ears, like it was giving up.
I was going to die down here.
“Cyn . . . thi . . . a,” I gasped, choking.
The pressure didn’t stop.
Before I realized what I was saying, before I could second-guess what I’d just chosen to be my final word, the sound slipped from my lips, soft and broken:
“Mom . . .”
Shock hit me like cold water.
The hands loosened.
“Mom . . . stop,” I said again, this time more clearly.
The grip fell away completely.
I gasped as if my lungs were trying to restart me. I sucked in air until I was dizzy with it.
My head spun. My heart splintered.
She was my mother.
The woman in the basement. Cynthia.
She was my freaking mom.
How was that even possible?
My body moved before my brain caught up. I staggered to my feet, raised my arm, and swung the heavy metal cuff on my wrist into the space where she had to be.
It hit.
Hard.
She let out a low, pained groan before collapsing onto the floor.
I leapt on top of her, slamming the metal chain against her head until she went limp beneath me.
My hands fumbled over her body. Somewhere under her tattered dress, I found it—a metal key.
It took several attempts to open my chains, as my hands were too shaky and numb to grip well. Eventually, one cuff clicked open, then the other. Then my ankles.
I stumbled toward the table I’d seen earlier, feeling my way across its rough wooden surface. The candle was still there. So was a match.
With trembling hands, I struck it.
The flame flared to life. I lit the candle and spun around fast.
And gagged.
Over and over, my stomach emptied. I doubled forward, choking on bile. It was all too much.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The taste of acid still clung to my tongue. Then my eyes drifted back to her.
Cynthia—my mom—lay motionless on the cold stone floor.
