“Katelyn? What are you doing?”
I pause my exploration of the ceiling and reach blindly in front of me, stepping down to the floor and inching forward until the fingertips of my free hand brush against Malcolm’s head. I glide them down to his shoulders, bending forward until my mouth accidentally bumps his ear.
“Hey, hey!” he says, leaning back and standing. “That’s a little more distraction than I need, but—”
I pull his head back to my mouth, rising on my toes and not caring when my lips graze his ear again. Dropping my voice to a barely audible volume, I say, “I’m trying to talk to you without being overheard.” Just because we can’t hear anyone outside the door doesn’t mean they aren’t there, especially after the way our voices rose when we forgot ourselves. “I’m checking the ceiling for an access hatch to the attic. I can’t remember if I saw one or not. Do you?”
Malcolm is shifting under my hands with every word, and it’s only when he turns his head to whisper in my own ear that I understand why. We’re practically cheek to cheek. His breath is warm, and it stirs the tiny hairs along my neck, making me shiver just as he had. “I didn’t come to until they shut the door.”
“It’ll be faster if we both search. Will you be okay if I let go of you?”
“Are you going to think less of me if I say no?”
“Probably,” I say with a slight smile he can’t see. The fact that he can joke about it means he’ll keep it together.
Without further need for communication, he steps up on the chair and I return to the futon. The quiet scuffing I hear is him moving the chair around.
“Katelyn.”
Just my name. I follow his voice, and when I reach the chair, he steps down for me to take his place. The ceiling is plaster, and rough under my fingertips, so I know the second I encounter the smooth rounded trim that surrounds a scuttle hole. Malcolm’s hand is resting on the outside of my leg just above the knee for balance, since the chair, like everything else in the room, is on its last legs. I reach down and squeeze his hand. Yes, this is what I was hoping for. The panel isn’t big, maybe two feet square, but compared to the jagged window opening I squeezed through at the motel, it’ll be cake.
I step back to the floor and, still holding Malcolm’s hand, pull him as far away from the door as possible—six feet, maybe. I don’t get quite as close to him when I whisper this time. “I don’t remember seeing a pull-down in the hallway, so this must be the only access to the attic. It’s been completely painted over; we’ll have to score the edges to open it. Maybe that’s a sign they forgot it’s in here.”
Malcolm’s cheek brushes against mine. “And maybe not.”
We’re still close enough that he can feel me nod. “It’s our best option.” Malcolm doesn’t need to see me to understand the urgency behind that statement. Yes, I’m terrified of Blue Eyes, but there’s no physical pain worse than not finding mymom.
“But we can get out through there?” he says.
“It’s the only way out of this room I can see.” Which doesn’t answer his question. I have no idea what we’ll find in the attic by way of an exit, but it has to be more than we have now. “We need something sharp to loosen the panel from the paint.” I look up again, imagining the lightbulb overhead. “I could break the bulb, but it might be too delicate.” And it might cut my hands to shreds in the dark.
Malcolm turns away from me, and I hear him shuffling around the room. There’s not much to search. The whole spaceisabout the size of my closet. The shuffling grows louder, and the pounding of my heartbeat grows with it. I don’t want our jailers hearing noises they can’t account for.
“Don’t worry,” I say in my normal volume. “I’ll explain everything to the investigator when he gets here. We’re safe for now. We just have to wait.”
Malcolm falls silent, and I wonder if he doesn’t realize I was talking for the dual benefit of Blue Eyes and the bounty hunter and to cover his rustling, but then he replies just as clearly.
“You’re right.” He stands, and his hand touches my arm, following it up to my shoulder. Leaning in, he whispers, “I need your earring.”
The studs are tiny emeralds that Mom got me for my last birthday, sixteenth or seventeenth, whichever one it actually turns out to have been. When I find her, Mom and I will have the mother of all fights—after I finish hugging her for three days straight. I never take the earrings out. When I cut and colored my hair that morning, shedding my former skin, I hadn’t even considered removing them. But I do it now without hesitation, handing over the small but precious piece of jewelry.
We keep talking about nothing after that, our voices loud and clear, and moments later Malcolm presses not just my earring back into my hand, but also a short screw that he must have taken from the futon frame.
“Will that work?” he says softly.
“Only one way to find out.”
We intersperse our random conversation with whispers detailing our progress as I take over securing our escape route. I slide the edge of the screw around the inner edge of the panel. The paint is thick, and due to the damp air, not as yielding as I’d like. I have the palm of my left hand pressed flat against the panel, pushing with steady, sustained force and trying to discern even the slightest give.
Our height difference isn’t so great that my standing on the chair puts Malcolm and me at eye level, but it’s small enough that bending down a little allows me to reach him without having to pause in my task.
“Two sides are lifting,” I say in his ear, excitement joining the words together. Malcolm’s hand on my shoulder keeps me from straightening.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” he says. “For any of this. Me saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean I expect that from you.” He drops his hand, but I don’t move away. “I just need you to know that, whatever happens. And thank you for saving my life at the motel. I don’t think I told you that.”
My breath catches. We’ve been speaking in hushed voices, whispers so soft that we have to press into each other to make them out. Right now, I’m leaning into him and he’s holding my head to his. It’s an embrace, and there’s no escaping the feel of his heartbeat thudding against mine.
“Why didn’t you just tell him what he wanted to know?” I say. “He wouldn’t have kept you in the trunk for all those days.”
