The Panic Room

I crawled into the vent.

It wasn't a choice. It was a reaction to the sheer, suffocating terror of being trapped in my own house with a monster who knew my passwords.

The metal was cold against my stomach. Dust filled my nose, smelling of ozone and old secrets. I dragged myself forward, elbows scraping against the rivets, the Glock heavy and awkward in my waistband.

I had built this house. I knew every inch of it. I knew the HVAC system was a closed loop, designed for maximum efficiency.

But I didn't know about the sub-basement.

I didn't know about the mannequin.

I kept crawling. The sound of Julian's footsteps below me faded, replaced by the hum of the air handlers.

I needed to get to the garage. But the garage was a dead end if I couldn't open the door.

*Think, Elena. Think.*

The service road.

If I could get out of the house, I could run down the service road. It was washed out, yes, but a person could walk it. A person could run.

I reached a junction. Left for the garage. Right for the kitchen.

I turned left.

The metal groaned under my weight.

I froze.

Had he heard that?

I waited. Silence.

I kept moving.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. The burner.

I couldn't check it. Not in here. It was too tight. I couldn't reach my pocket without getting stuck.

I crawled faster. My knees burned.

I reached the garage vent. I peered through the slats.

The garage was dark. The Range Rover sat in the center, a black monolith.

I pushed the grate. It gave with a quiet *click*.

I lowered myself down, hanging by my fingertips before dropping to the concrete floor.

I landed in a crouch, gun raised.

Empty.

I ran to the side door. Locked.

I tried the keypad.

*Access Denied.*

Of course.

I looked around. I needed a way out.

The garage door opener.

I hit the button on the wall.

Nothing.

The power was cut.

I ran to the manual release cord. I pulled it.

The door disengaged from the track.

I grabbed the handle at the bottom and heaved.

It was heavy. Solid wood. Reinforced.

I strained, my muscles burning.

It slid up. Six inches. A foot.

Enough.

I dropped to my stomach. I rolled under the door.

The cold, wet air hit me like a slap. The fog was thick, swirling around the driveway like smoke.

I stood up. I was out.

I was free.

I ran down the driveway, past the gate, onto the service road.

It was dark. Muddy. The trees loomed over me like skeletons.

I slipped, sliding on the wet leaves. I got up and kept running.

I had to get to the scooter. I had to get to town.

Behind me, I heard a sound.

A car engine starting.

The Range Rover.

Headlights cut through the fog, sweeping across the trees.

He was coming.

I dove into the bushes. I scrambled down the embankment, sliding through the mud and ferns.

The car roared past on the road above me.

I lay in the dirt, heart hammering against the earth.

He was hunting me.

My phone buzzed.

I pulled it out.

*He knows you're out.*

I looked at the screen.

*Where are you?* I typed.

*The old sanitarium,* the reply came. *Meet me there.*

The sanitarium. The ruins down the cliff.

It was dangerous. Unstable.

But it was the only place he wouldn't look.

I stood up. I wiped the mud from my face.

And I ran into the dark.