Ch.18: Thorne Returns

The door upstairs slams shut.

I hear the squeal of tires on the driveway. Aris is gone. He’s chasing Greta.

I am alone in the basement.

I look at my hands. They are trembling, pale, weak... but they are mine. I clench my fist again. The strength is pitiful, a child's grip, but it's enough to hold a spoon. Or a phone.

The phone.

I remember what I saw on the monitor. Thorne dropped a burner phone in the fern by the front door.

I need to get to it.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. They hit the floor. My knees buckle instantly, and I collapse onto the cold concrete.

My hips scream. My back spasms. The muscles are atrophied, wasted away from weeks of enforced coma.

I drag myself forward on my elbows. It’s a soldier’s crawl. Army of one.

I reach the door. It’s still unlocked.

I push it open.

The hallway beyond is dark. It leads to the service stairs. I know this house. I designed the renovations. I know that the service stairs lead up to the kitchen, and the kitchen leads to the foyer.

I crawl.

Each movement is agony. My skin scrapes against the rough floor. The bandages on my face itch and burn. My missing eye throbs in time with my heart.

*Up. Up. Up.*

I reach the stairs. I pull myself up, step by step. My arms shake so bad I almost fall backward twice.

I reach the top. I push open the door to the kitchen.

The house is silent. The "Smart Home" system is still rebooting from my earlier sabotage, the lights flickering dimly.

I crawl across the checkered tile floor. Past the island where I used to make pancakes for Lily. Past the fridge covered in her drawings.

I reach the foyer.

The fern is there. A large, potted monstrosity in the corner by the front door.

I drag myself to it. I reach into the dirt.

My fingers brush plastic.

I pull it out.

A cheap, prepaid flip phone.

I flip it open. The screen glows blue.

**1 New Message.**

I open it.

**FROM: UNKNOWN**
**TEXT: I know she's in there. I'm coming back with a warrant. 24 hours.**

Thorne.

He knows. He saw the twitch. He felt the warmth.

I try to type a reply. My fingers are clumsy.

**H-E-L-P.**

I hit send.

**SENDING...**

**ERROR. NO SIGNAL.**

I stare at the screen. Zero bars.

The basement is a Faraday cage, but the foyer shouldn't be.

Unless...

I look at the wall panel by the door. The security system.

**STATUS: LOCKDOWN. JAMMING ACTIVE.**

Aris activated the perimeter countermeasures when the alarm tripped. He jammed all cellular signals to stop Greta from calling for help.

I can't call out. Thorne can't call in.

I look at the front door. It’s heavy oak, reinforced with steel. It has a bio-lock.

I reach up. I grab the handle. Locked.

I look at the keypad.

It requires a fingerprint. Aris's fingerprint.

Or...

I look at my own hand. My right hand.

I press my thumb to the scanner.

**ACCESS DENIED.**

Of course. He deleted my prints from the active user list.

I am trapped.

I hear a sound outside.

A car engine.

It’s getting louder. It’s coming up the driveway.

Aris is back.

He caught her. Or he gave up. Either way, he’s back, and he’s going to find me out of bed.

I look at the stairs leading down to the basement. I look at the fern.

I can't hide the phone on me. He'll strip search me. He'll find it.

I bury the phone back in the dirt. Deep.

I have to get back downstairs. I have to get back into bed. I have to pretend I never moved.

But my body is failing. The adrenaline is crashing. My legs are jelly.

I turn to crawl back to the kitchen.

The front door handle turns.

He has a key. A physical key.

I freeze. I am lying in the middle of the foyer floor, exposed, helpless.

I look around. There is nowhere to hide. The furniture is too sparse. The shadows are too thin.

The lock clicks.

The door starts to open.

I scramble backward. I push myself behind the large decorative vase on the entry table. It’s not enough cover. If he looks down, he’ll see me.

The door opens fully.

Aris steps in.

He is dragging something. Or someone.

He pulls Greta into the hallway. She is limp. Unconscious? Dead?

He drops her on the floor.

He kicks the door shut.

He stands there, breathing hard. He runs a hand through his hair.

He looks toward the kitchen.

He takes a step.

I hold my breath.

If he walks five more feet, he will see me huddled behind the vase.

But he stops.

He looks down at Greta.

"Stupid bitch," he mutters. "Did you really think you could outrun a Porsche?"

He bends down and picks her up. He throws her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

He heads for the basement stairs.

He walks right past me. He is so focused on his rage, on his captive, that he doesn't check the corners.

He disappears down the service stairs.

I am safe. For now.

But I am stuck in the foyer. And the phone is in the plant.

It's 50 feet away. Might as well be a mile.