She opens her mouth to protest, but I interrupt. “What’s your passcode?”
She clamps her mouth shut. I think if she could fold her arms over her chest like a petulant child, she would.
“Do you really think this is a negotiation?” I ask.
A muscle twitches in her jaw.
“Fine.” I stalk forward and hate how satisfying the flicker of fear in her eyes is. I grab her wrist, jamming her thumb against the screen. She tries in vain to jerk her hand away, but the phone unlocks.
Cecily’s background is a photo of her and her dad at a birthday party.
“We’re not done here,” I say, and head for the door, slipping out into the hall and away from Cecily Holden.
Thirty-Eight
Despite Cecily’s assurance that thephone won’t work where we are, it doesn’t stop me from trying. Out in the cold hall, I lean most of my weight into the wall and fumble with the cell. Its battery is dangerously low. I’ll be lucky to get a few minutes out of it. And sure enough, where the bars should be are the wordsNo Service.
I ignore the logic instituted by the battery and lack of service and punch in the only phone number I have memorized. Margot. I only know it because our numbers are the same, save the last few digits.
I start walking, up and down the hall, the phone held high above my head. I try and try, but after five failed attempts, despair is trickling in through my bare feet, up my legs, making me wilt.
I have one more card and no idea if it’ll work. But I’ve heard that phones without service can still dial 911.
The phone gives me a 5 percent battery warning. I climb thestairs and press myself into the steel door at the top, stretching the phone up. I punch in the three numbers and hit call.
And it rings. Once, twice, then, a woman’s voice filters through.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Relief washes over me, but it’s short-lived.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” the woman asks.
I have so much to say and not enough time for half of it. I’m rambling, but I have to hope the operator gets enough to do some good.
“My name is Joanna Griffin. I was taken. My little brother is here, too. And there are others. We’re—”
“Excuse me, sweetheart, you’re breaking up. Repeat everything you said slowly.”
Frustration coils and snaps in my gut. I clench my teeth, spit out my spiel again.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Underground,” I say, panic swelling. My memories of the moments before I was knocked out are fuzzy, but I remember walking, and then entering the barn, and a hatch. “Maybe a storm cellar. I was in the barn, and then—”
“All right, that’s okay. We’re currently working on triangulating your location. I need you to stay on the line.”
“The phone is dying,” I say. “I don’t know how much time I have.”
“Okay. Let’s figure this out, sweetheart. Do you know your kidnapper?” The woman is calm, and I know that’s part of the job, but it only spikes my fear. I’m running out of time, or I’m already out, and these borrowed seconds are all I have.
“Yes,” I say. “Oliver Holden.” I feed her the address and my own.
“You said you were underground. What do you see?”
“It’s…it’s, like, this hallway. But it’s all cement. There are doors and a staircase. I think it leads to the exit, but there’s a keypad, and I don’t—”
The phone dies. And with it, the despair swoops in, weighing down my already tired limbs.
