Rye turned over, keeping the blanket pulled all the way up to his chin, and opened his eyes to look at the now-empty mug sitting on the nightstand. It had been a citrusy something with a touch of honey. Exactly what he’d wished he’d had.
Somehow, Jake had known. Or it had just been some really odd coincidence.
Either way, he’d savored every sip. And he sort of wished he had more.
The house was quiet except for the sound of rain outside, and Rye closed his eyes again, listening. He hadn’t heard rain in so long, and it was almost soothing to him. That, along with the brightness of the room, and the way the air felt warm and fresh.
It was the exact opposite of the basement where the awful man had kept him. The dark, closed-off, cold, musty basement. There had been no windows, and the only light had come from the single bulb hanging in the center of the room—which had only been illuminated when the man had chosen to turn it on.
And Rye had never been given such a soft, warm blanket. Or clean, fresh clothes. Or tea.
The comfortable quiet was broken by a muffled grunt that came from somewhere down the hallway, followed by a few words Rye couldn’t quite make out but that seemed strained. And nearly immediately, his chest seized up with panic. He gripped the blanket and held his breath.
Creaking floorboards overhead. Muffled curses. A dead bolt being unlocked, and a door opening on old, rusty hinges. The stench of cigarettes.
He heard the sounds, even though logically he knew they weren’t there. And his body reacted, his heart racing and his fingers aching as they held tightly onto the blanket.
Please leave, he thought, although he tried to stay as silent as possible.
Yet outside the room, he heard those heavy, uneven footsteps, and then another muffled word, a hissed curse and, at the same time, a thud against one of the walls.
Unable to hold still any longer, Rye pushed himself over to the other side of the bed, away from the door, and then he grabbed the blanket, tugging it off the bed with him, as he scramble-crawled on arms and legs that didn’t really work right over to the corner of the room. He curled up on the floor, pulled the blanket up over him, and hid.
His breaths were coming in fast pants now, and every one of them burned. And his arms and legs trembled.
He felt cold, too. Even as he covered himself with the blanket—the nice, soft, warm blanket—he felt a chill wash over his skin.
“Fuckin’ get out of that corner and get your ass over here. We’re gonna play a game tonight, and you’re gonna fuckin’ like it.”
No. No, no, no!
The footsteps came closer, echoing from down the hallway, maybe. And there was a heavy sort of breathing, and Rye could smell it again—the stench of cigarettes, the musty air of the basement, the foul odor that wafted his way whenever the man was close.
“You’re gonna be fuckin’ dead.”
He was here. The man. The man was here. Somehow.
Rye heard some noise rise up out of his throat—something like a strangled whimper or cry, and he released the blanket and covered his mouth with his hands to try to mute the sound. But he couldn’t stop the sobs from coming.
He didn’t want to die. And he just knew he’d done the worst thing—trying to get away. To escape. The man had warned him he’d be dead.
He pressed his hands harder against his mouth and scrunched his eyes shut tighter, tears slipping out and down his cheeks. And he heard his own noises of fear again—the not-quite-suppressed sob that shuddered and shook.
The footsteps stopped much closer now, and there was a soft knock.
“Hey there, how’re you...” The gentle voice trailed off, and Rye bit down on one finger of his left hand to keep his sobs quiet.
Not that it would matter. He was fucking dead either way.
The man cleared his throat, and then there were more footsteps. Closer now. Coming into the room and around the bed.
His tears flowed, and he tried not to move and not to make more noise, he really did. But he couldn’t stop his shaking. And he couldn’t breathe.
“Hey, are you okay?” Shuffling. A grunt as the bed squeaked. “Sorry for intruding, but I needed to check on you. Sue—she’s the nurse in town—she says I’ve gotta give her an update within the hour or she’ll be sending the coast guard out here. And believe me, she means it.”
Jake.The kind voice belonged to this man, whose name was Jake.
Because Rye had escaped from that hellhole of a basement, snuck out of that rotten house, and taken off running—somehow, even though he hadn’t run at all in however-many years. He’d run until his lungs had burned and his legs had ached, and then he’d kept going, stumbling through the thick forest, until he’d reached the beach.
