He watches me go, and I can feel his stare burning holes in my back.
I don’t feel bad about it. Not even a little. The old me would have, but that girl is long gone, dead and buried somewhere under a mountain of humiliations and betrayals, her bones gnawed clean by the monsters she thought had hearts.
They don’t, and I’m not that girl anymore.
Now, I’m the one lighting matches and watching to see which way the fire spreads.
CHAPTER 24
AVA
By the timeI reach the boathouse, the wind is howling so loudly it almost sounds like voices threading through the branches. Or maybe I’m just losing it. There’s no moon, just a strip of dying sunlight barely threading between the trees, painting everything a sickly orange. The air is thick with the promise of an impending storm, and even though I was just here a few days ago, every step makes my stomach churn harder.
The last time I walked up to this place alone, Raf strung me up like a carcass for their stupid Halloween party. Tonight feels a lot like that– cold and ominous, a cool tendril of dread slithering up my spine.
I ball my fists in my coat pockets and force myself forward, the glass doors of the boathouse looming ahead, like they’re daring me to enter. I hesitate, glancing back over my shoulder at the path through the trees. There’s nothing behind me but the dark and the sway of the woods, but I still feel watched. Not by the Kings, not even by the ghosts of all the girls who probably got wrecked out here before me, but by something else. Like I’m outside my own body, screaming at myself to turn around and run for my fucking life.
The metal handle is freezing when I grab ahold, biting into the skin of my palm. I squeeze it tight, try to steady my breath, and push the door open, bracing for whatever horror show the Kings have cooked up for tonight.
The interior is dark– way darker than it should be for this time of evening. No music, no laughter, just the slow, rhythmic drip of water somewhere overhead and the faint smell of stale beer. My eyes adjust slowly, picking out the outline of the main room. The collapsed ping pong table, the sticky party cups abandoned in the corner, the circle of big battered leather couches arranged at the rear.
I swallow thickly.
“Hello?” I call, my voice coming out paper thin, crumpled by the acoustics of the empty space.
Nothing.
I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. The cold follows me in, settling into my hair and jacket, burrowing under my skin. It’s so silent that all I can hear is the thunder of my pulse in my ears and the slow, lazy slosh of the lake outside.
For a second, I wonder if this is a prank– if Ford texted me just to see if I’d show up and wander around like a lost dog. Maybe he’s out there right now, watching through the windows, laughing with Wes and Raf about how predictable I am.
The humiliation stings, but not as much as the fear.
I step forward, the floorboards sticky beneath my feet. I move past the DJ booth, past the beer pong table, to the back of the room where a heavy utility door stands slightly ajar.
“Ford?” I try again. “If you’re trying to scare me, then congrats, it’s working.”
Still nothing, but as I move closer to the door, I hear the low hum of voices from somewhere past it. My hands start to shake, and I flex my fingers in an effort to stop their trembling. I debateabout turning back, then think better of it, pushing the door open all the way to step through.
The concrete stairs beyond are steep and narrow, barely wider than my shoes. They descend down into the black, and I have to run my hand along the wall to keep myself steady as I start descending. The surface is clammy and damp, and I almost slip on the third step, my breath catching in my throat.
There’s a strange smell down here. Rust, sweat… maybe blood, but I tell myself I’m being dramatic. I keep going, because I’m either brave or stupid. Most likely the latter.
The staircase spills out into a cramped little chamber, more of a root cellar than anything else. The walls are gray cinderblock, sweating with condensation. The single bulb overhead barely illuminates the center of the room, let alone the dark corners, but it’s enough to see exactly what kind of hell I just walked into.
In the middle of the room, a guy is tied to a wooden chair. His ankles and wrists are duct-taped to the legs and arms, and he’s hunched forward, his chin on his chest, a bloody, torn rag stuffed into his mouth.
I stumble backwards, nearly falling back against the stairs.
“What the fuck?” I choke.
“Hey, Ava baby.”
I startle, whipping around to find Ford standing behind me, grinning like he just ate the best meal of his life. He’s got blood on his hands, shiny and fresh, smeared on his knuckles, up his forearm… even a fleck on his chin.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My knees threaten to collapse beneath me.
Wes and Raf slide in behind him. Both are eerily calm, almost bored. Raf has a bandage wrapped around his hand, blood already soaking through, while Wes dabs at a split lip, the sleeve of his hoodie streaked red.
