My brain freezes on that notion.
That thought ignites a fuse, the spark coursing through my muscles. I jolt upright, nearly hitting my skull on the metal track looming above me. My earlier interaction with him in the break room stirs in my mind like wet paint until each stroke blends seamlessly and creates a bigger picture.
What if Vincent wasn’t hanging out in the dark closet all that time that I was on break?
If there’s an underground tunnel system, there must be different access points, some clearly marked and some not. An easy way for them to navigate the park without all the foot traffic and visitors.
Maybe it is like Disneyland.
I stand up, hopping over the ledge and back onto the faux rocky surface leading to the exit as if I’m attached to a cable that’s dragging me through the building without my consent. Idon’t want to be curious, but I can’t help myself. It’s not long before I’m staring at the metal door to the closet in the break room.
Remember when I mentioned fears as a child? Isn’t it a common one to be frightened of something loitering in the closet?
That explains why I’m staring at the barrier between me and the small room of cleaning supplies like it will burst open, and a massive beast with fangs will pop out and sink its deadly claws into my flesh and render me helpless. Truthfully, I might have the same reaction if Vincent is lurking on the other side.
My trembling hand lifts to rest on the door handle, slowly turning the knob to open it toward me. As I suspected, it’s dark, hitting me with that musty smell containing a hint of chemicals that permeates the air. I step through the threshold, peering around at the small space, maybe eight by eight feet. Extra paper towels, bleach, and other various cleaning products haphazardly line the floor-to-ceiling shelves, and per usual, there’s a mop bucket positioned in front of them in one of the far back corners.
You would think that if someone were spending time in here, there would be a chair or a stool. Maybe even one of those old-school metal buckets to place upside down and sit on. But no. There is nothing of the sort.
Jeremy’s words stick like glue at the forefront of my mind.
“I saw him come out of there once with a duffel bag. It was strange, but then, I thought that maybe he was changing or something.”
It only further solidifies my suspicions about Vincent.
I swallow, ambling further into the small space. My eyes roam over the shelves, flitting over all the things that are usually ignored and disregarded by anyone who isn’t a cleaner. My eyes drop to the concrete floor that matches the rest of the building—cold and gray with scuff marks and other mysterious markingsthat signal years of wear and tear. It’s simple things like this that remind me that even the most solid things aren’t entirely untouchable.
It’s not until my eyes land on a faint, unusual curvature marking on the floor that my pulse throbs in my ears. A gentle bend scuffed into the pavement. It’s only because I’m scanning the floor with laser-focused eyes that I notice; otherwise, I would’ve never registered it.
One cautious step at a time, I approach the back shelves, knowing part of it must swing out. Peering at the wall between all the items chaotically placed around, I barely notice the crack behind. If there is anything that I have learned from movies, it is that there is always a secret lever or something that opens the door.
My heart wildly pounds in my chest, reminding me that it is very much alive and not in agreement with my body enslaved to the thoughts in my head. There aren’t many times when I have an out-of-body experience, but this is one of those. I feel like I’m floating, my mind hazy as my body works absentmindedly despite the static circulating in my brain from overdrive.
Somehow, I don’t realize what I’m doing when I start picking up every product like a crazed person looking for something they misplaced. I touch bleach bottles, move cannisters, and boxes of unlabeled products. I push aside cleaning supplies and random, unnecessary items that appear out of place.
God, this is so stupid.
I’m sleep-deprived from my nightmares and just need to go home. It’s not my fault that the girl couldn’t follow simple directions and keep her hands inside the cart. Her losing her phone is her own damn fault.
I release a tired breath laced with annoyance that I let myself believe that maybe there’s more to Lachlan Park than I thought. Turning on my heels, I face the open doorway, my attentiondrawn to a mounted glass frame in the concrete box they call a closet. The frame contains information for workplace safety; the same one they have displayed in various places around staff areas. But it's the tilt of the framed poster drilled into the wall that has me gravitating toward it like I'm a magnet, unable to resist the pull as it clings to my curiosity.
My hair stands on end, my fingers trembling as I tilt it on its axis so it's horizontal instead of vertical as it should be. My eyes widen as I take in the small cutout in the wall, which houses a black button.
That’s it. Nothing else.
You’d think that if they didn’t want anyone touching it, there would be some sign—a warning. That’s what I tell myself anyway as my trembling fingers lift and press the button. The silent groan emanating behind me prompts me to turn around, shivering as a breath of cool air drifts up the dark stairs that descend below.
Every step toward the secret door is in slow motion compared to the frantic beating behind my ribs. I take the first few steps down, my skin slowly adjusting to the increasing chill. My body is taut and vibrating, pushing my heart in my throat as the door clicks shut behind me.
My skin may be freezing, but it doesn’t extinguish the heat licking every nerve ending as I warily take one step at a time. A heat that explodes into a chaos of liquid wildfire when the horrifying roar of a man cuts through the tunnels.
EIGHT | PRESTON
Iskillfully twirl the knife, the handle slipping and weaving through my fingers like smooth water I’m gracefully controlling.
I’ve done it enough times since my father gifted it to me at eighteen that it doesn’t take an ounce of my concentration.
It looks intimidating as hell before it leads to one of two things: sheathing it back against my hip, where it always stays, along with my Glock, or it finds itself lodged into someone’s chest cavity.
