Hope
Wyatt’s basement is like a prepper’s wet dream. Fully stocked with canned goods, gallon jugs of water, cleaning supplies, tools, fishing gear, and more. A clothesline stretches across the room with a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt draped over it.
My arm aches, and I rub my palms on my thighs. I hate not knowing what’s going on. Hate being trapped in a dim, windowless room. Too many memories of all the times Simon punished me.
My heart races. I have to get out of here. But I can’t leave. Not until Wyatt comes back for me. I promised.
What if they’ve already killed him?
Oh, God. No. Please, no.
If I don’t do something, I’ll scream. So I search through a large rolling tool cabinet until I find a hammer.
This is better. I can defend myself.
With a hammer, Hope? This is a joke, right?
The crack from outside makes me yelp, and the hammer hits the cement floor. Another loud bang, and I realize what I’m hearing.
Gunshots.
A scrambling, scratching sound comes from the far end of the room. There’s nothing over there but shelves and storage boxes. Shit. I have to hide. I drop to my knees and try to wedge myself under the utility sink.
It’s too small. Too tight. Too exposed.
Wyatt. Please come back.
Murphy yips, and then he’s nosing my elbow. “How did you get in here?” I wrap my arms around his sleek body. Something sticks to my palm, and I pull back.
Blood.
My heart skips a beat. Or five. “Is Wyatt hurt?”
The dog whines, then tugs on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. That’s a yes if I ever heard one.
“Show me the door,” I say softly, crawling out from under the sink.
Murphy trots to the back corner, stops, and glances back at me before nosing the wall. A doggie door swings open, and a shaft of sunlight streams into the room.
“You want me to squeeze through that?” Eyeing the opening, I shove a cardboard box aside and crouch down. I could just go back up the stairs. But as soon as I push to my feet, footsteps cross the floor above me. More than one set.
That’s not Wyatt. He doesn’t make a sound when he walks. And Murphy’s growing more agitated by the second. He keeps sticking his head back through the opening and whining.
“Go,” I tell him, and he’s through the door like a shot. Lying on the floor, I shove my arms outside first. The movement pulls at my stitches, and I stifle my whimper. Head. Shoulders. Chest. My boots scramble for purchase. Murphy dips his head and tries to nose under my right elbow. He’s so damn smart. As soon as I wrap my arms around his neck, he starts pulling me.
My hips catch on the edge of the door. Shit. I force all the air from my lungs, desperate for just a fraction of an inch. Gritting my teeth, I kick once, and I’m free.
The soft earth is still damp from the snowmelt, but early spring wildflowers carpet the landscape. Murphy noses my cheek, whining softly, before he grabs the collar of my sweatshirt in his teeth and tugs once.
I get it. Time to get the hell away from here.
Resting my hand on the back of the dog’s neck, I lean close and whisper, “Find Wyatt.”
Murphy stares at me for a beat, and I swear there’s a gleam in his eyes as he takes off. I follow as quietly as I can, but with every step, I cringe. I sound like a herd of elephants running through the woods.
Two loud bangs send me scurrying behind a large pine tree. A few seconds later, a handful of quieter pops come from a different direction.
I know that sound. One of Simon’s generals tried to leave the organization once. Simon made me watch while Brix shot the man with a silenced pistol.
