I pulled myself through the gap and moved quickly. I didn’t head toward the stairs leading to the yellow basement door. I figured it would be locked. Instead, I ran toward the room with the bookshelf—the one hiding the stairs to the pantry.
I hurried through the corridor and up the narrow wooden steps. When I reached the top, I stopped short.
The door was wide open.
Had Daniel already searched for me down there? Maybe he didn’t know that behind that brick wall was another hidden corridor and room.
“Daniel!” I shouted.
No answer.
Up here, the light was better. It was still dim from the storm outside, but compared to the basement with no windows, it felt like daylight. I went straight to the kitchen junk drawer, pulled out a flashlight, and flicked it on.
“Daniel!” I called again, louder this time. “Hudson!”
Nothing.
Just the growl of thunder and the occasional burst of lightning flashing against the windows.
I tore through the Breakers like a storm myself, bursting into room after empty room. Each shout echoed unanswered.
The parents’ bedroom door still appeared to be locked from the hallway, but when I pushed it open, I realized that Cynthia had shoved the dresser aside from the inside, then closed the door to make it seem undisturbed from the outside. She must have waited in there.
On the floor, my phone lay face down.
The battery was dead.
I put it into my pocket and pressed on, searching the rest of the Breakers. No sign of Daniel. No Hudson. No Mochi.
Nothing.
Panic clawed at my chest as I darted through the kitchen and out the back door into the storm. Rain hit me like needles. Wind shoved me sideways. The sky was black and roaring. Still, I ran.
Across the yard, a faint glow shone from Hudson’s cabin window.
I sprinted toward it, soaked and shivering. My hair was plastered to my face, and my shoes squelched through the mud.
Finally, I tore the door open.
The warmth of his cabin hit me instantly—the scent of firewood, wet fur, and blood all mixed in the air.
Hudson lay slumped on the couch, the cozy living room dimly lit by the fire in the stone hearth. Blood soaked his shirt and spread across the cushion beneath him. He didn’t move at first—then a faint groan slipped out. Relief hit me, not only because he was alive, but because the dogs were back inside too, safe, pacing around him with low whimpers in their throats.
Then I saw him.
“Mochi!” I gasped.
He was on the TV stand, hunched in his cage. He looked soaked and alert, his feathers puffed and his eyes wide.
I rushed to Hudson’s side. “Hudson, are you okay?”
My knees hit the floor next to him. His skin was cold, but I found a pulse—weak and slow.
He was alive.
Barely.
His face looked pale, and his lips were tinged with blue. Blood—dark and thick—still oozed from his shirt. He looked like he’d spilled half his life onto the floor.
