Chapter 22: The Retreat

I scrambled backward, my heels digging into the plush carpet, until my back hit the foot of the bed.

The closet door swung wide.

It wasn't Chloe. It wasn't Mark.

It was empty.

Just rows of winter coats and vacuum-sealed bedding, hanging in the dark like silent sentinels.

"Fooled you," the monitor whispered.

The voice was tinny, distorted by the speaker, but the amusement was crystal clear.

I looked at the monitor base in my hand. The power light was blinking red. Low battery.

"Where are you?" I rasped, my throat raw from screaming.

"I told you," Chloe said. "I'm right here."

I scanned the room again. The dresser. The lamp. The vent.

The vent.

I remembered the loose screws in my own room. The way the sound carried from the kitchen.

I dropped the monitor and crawled to the air return near the baseboard. I pressed my ear against the metal grate.

"See?" Chloe's voice drifted up, faint but distinct. "She's not even looking in the right place. She's running in circles."

"She's scared," Mark said. His voice was closer. Louder. "Chloe, stop playing with her."

"I'm not playing. I'm teaching her a lesson."

They were in the basement.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. The monitor wasn't picking up a signal from another room upstairs. It was picking up a signal from directly below me.

I pressed my face closer to the grate.

"Is she out?" Mark asked.

"The sedative will kick in soon," Chloe replied. "She'll be out cold in ten minutes."

"And then what?"

"Then we move her. To the car."

"What about the neighbors? Mrs. Gable saw her in the window."

"Mrs. Gable is a senile old bat," Chloe scoffed. "If she calls the cops, we tell them Elara had a breakdown. We show them the prescriptions. We show them the 'violent outbursts'. Who are they going to believe? The loving husband and his devoted sister? Or the woman who throws baby lotion at people?"

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling.

They thought the drugs were working. They thought I was moments away from unconsciousness.

I had ten minutes. Maybe less.

I looked at the door. Chloe was right outside, guarding the hallway. If I unlocked it, she would hear.

I needed another way out.

I went to the window again. Painted shut. I ran my fingers along the sash, searching for a weakness, a crack in the layers of white gloss. Nothing.

I grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand. I could smash the glass.

But the noise. The crash would bring them running before I could even climb onto the sill.

I needed a distraction.

I looked at the closet. The empty closet that had terrified me moments ago.

Inside, on the top shelf, was a stack of old board games. Monopoly. Scrabble. And a dusty, forgotten karaoke machine from a New Year's party three years ago.

I grabbed the karaoke machine. It was heavy, bulky. I plugged it into the outlet behind the dresser. I turned the volume dial all the way to the right.

I found the microphone. I placed it next to the baby monitor receiver on the dresser.

Then I grabbed the lamp.

I walked to the closet and shoved the lamp inside, under the hanging coats. I piled blankets on top of it, creating a dense, muffled nest.

I stepped back.

If this worked, it would sound like I was trashing the room. Screaming. Fighting ghosts. It would draw them upstairs.

And while they were breaking down the door to get to me...

I would be going down.

I ran to the vent. I jammed my fingers into the slats and pulled. The metal groaned, rusted screws protesting, but it gave. I yanked the cover off, exposing the dark, dusty throat of the ductwork.

It was tight. Claustrophobically tight. But I had lost weight. I was smaller than I had been in years.

I lowered my legs into the hole. The metal edge scraped my skin, but I didn't stop. I shimmied down until my waist was level with the floor.

I took a deep breath.

I reached out and hit the "ON" button on the karaoke machine.

Feedback squealed through the room, a high-pitched shriek that made my teeth ache. Then the static hiss of an open mic.

I dropped into the darkness just as the first heavy thud pounded against the bedroom door.