Nothing but the constant drone of water. Even if my voice carried to the park, no one is out there, not in this weather.
I glance around the space. Small. Cramped. Dark. Several feet between the metal door and the stairway leading down. Down to the catacombs. And straight to Lyam.
With my eyes shut, I press my back to the door. The ground shifts beneath my feet—a sudden shudder and tilt. Only it’s me who’s quaking.
Because there’s nowhere to run.
Nowhere to hide.
I’m all by myself. Alone with a killer.
My jaw chatters from cold and fear. Drenched clothes. The verge of hypothermia. Bare feet and empty hands. But wait . . .the knife.
I slap my hand on my back pocket, feeling for the blade I’d hidden there. But of course, it’s gone. Taken when I was unconscious. Or lost. When I fled through the tunnels or fell in the water.
Sound rises from the stairwell, and my heart shreds itself.
Slow, steady footsteps. Coming closer.
Lyam is here.
Turning in a circle, I scour the ground, the walls, searching for anything I can use to defend myself. Maybe a rock, or piece of stone if I can free it from the mortar.
Wait. On the stairs. The broken step.
I drop to my knees at the top of the stairs, dragging my hand along the edge of each step. I lost my footing when something shifted beneath my foot. If it’s cracked, maybe, just maybe?—
A sharp point gouges my palm.
My hand jerks in reflex, but then I grab onto the piece that jabbed me. Part of the step slants down, probably cracked long ago, damaged further when I stepped on it.
Gripping the broken section, I pull up and then push down, lending the weight of my body to the effort.
“I don’t usually have to work this hard.” Lyam’s voice. He stands below me on the steps, a lazy grin on his face.
My throat tightens and my skin chills. My nervous system is at full tilt, yet he stands there, smiling.
How is he so calm? Why isn’t he angry?
Because he’s done this before. Hunted women like prey, mice in a maze scurrying for escape.
This is the part he enjoys the most.
“Come here,” he says, his tone confident. Commanding. As if after all this, I’ll simply obey.
I keep my eyes on his but slide my legs down. Sitting, I angle to block my hand from his view and continue to work the broken stone.
He climbs a step. Then another. He scrapes something along the wall. A long, metal tool. With a hook.
I remember the table in the bleeding room. Covered in torture devices.
“Get up.” He snaps at me, testy and impatient, used to people following his orders.
“Or what?” I ask, trying to keep him talking as I continue to move the fragment back and forth. “You’ll strap me back on that table like you did Alice? And Rose? And how many others before?”
The chunk shifts beneath my hands with a sandpaper scrape.
Lyam takes the final step, looming above me in the tight stairwell.
