The only sound is my breathing. Harsh, and fast, and almost bubbling.
There’s a gurgling sound coming from my throat. The floor beneath me is wet.
Get help.
Before he comes back.
Move, Emmy.
Every second feels like an hour as my nails dig into the filthy floor and I pull myself along, dragging my body toward the faint crack of light.
I have to get inside.
My face drops into the floor with a short, pained moan. Agony leaks into every part of my body. Even my thoughts feel scattered and muddy.
I don’t want to die like this. On a dirty, cement floor in the dark.
The phone is on the floor.
You can get to it.
Get inside and close the door.
One inch.
Another.
The tips of my fingers brush the doorframe, and my sob sounds distant as I press against it, opening it slowly and pulling myself through.
So close. You’re so close.
I listen to that voice. Low, and coaxing, and so gentle that I start crying again.
The air changes against my face. Blurry light pushes beneath my eyelids.
Close the door, Emmy.
My feet don’t move the first time. Or the second. I try to push them against the door, unable to see behind me. The click of the door echoes like a gunshot, and I slump.
He’s on the other side. Locked out.
I’m so tired. Every flutter of my eyelashes becomes slower.
And the floor is so warm beneath my cheek. Like a blanket.
Call Jared, Emmy. Open your eyes.
“I did,” I rasp. I called Jared already.
Not for me, baby. For you.
I need to sleep.
Just for a little while.
Just—
52
