Another bug, separated from the group, probed my neck.
I cringed as the insect’s antennae tickled my earlobe. In the dark, I imagined beady eyes set in alien heads, mandibles nibbling, gnawing, scraping.
But the bugs weren’t the real threat here. I tried to calculate how much time I had before I suffocated, but math wasn’t my best subject, even with a clear head. And my head was far from clear.
Though math wasn’t my thing, science was. I knew enough of that to realize even as I breathed my limited oxygen, I expelled carbon dioxide, the buildup of which would soon make the air around me unfit to breathe. My respiration and heart rate would become depressed, leading to intoxication, unconsciousness, and, finally, death. How long did I have? I guessed twenty minutes. Maybe less.
I suppressed the urge to scream. No one would hear, and it would deplete precious air.
I shifted, startling the bug closest to my head. It bit my earlobe, drawing blood. Had it started the same way with Natalie?
In that tight space, I had little leverage, but I summoned all I had to throw myself against the box’s edges. Beneath my legs, I found patches of wood that had gone soft, but located as they were on the coffin’s floor, they were of no use to me.
My thrashing made the insects angrier. They hissed, and fresh bites bloomed on my legs.
I tried to be grateful for the bugs and that stupid box. If Brooklyn hadn’t been intent on her very specific torture, she likely would’ve buried me directly in the ground. In that case, I would’ve already suffocated.
My head ached from the carbon dioxide. Soon, I would get sleepy—was that starting already? My eyelids felt heavier than they had a moment before—and then I’d no longer be capable of making decisions. Next—death. For me and for Leo.
My lungs cramped. It was pitch black, a night more complete than the one several feet above my head.
In my grave, the bugs weren’t my only company. The bite of memories was just as sharp.
Red letting go of the back of my bike, releasing me into the wind. It had been like flying, and knowing he was there, I hadn’t fallen.
Sam in his hospital gown, reassuring me that he and Audrey would be okay. Though I had always been good with my fists, Sam was the strong one. Had been the strong one. Tears did me no good, but they spilled anyway.
The kids. Just that.
Then: a woman yelling at me to shut the hell up, followed by a stinging slap that had cut the inside of my cheek.
Where had that come from?
I banged my fists on the wood above me until they throbbed. Then I dropped my arms, a gesture that felt like cowardice.
I deserved this. I deserved all of it.
Out there, surrounded by limitless air and a thousand distractions, I could pretend I was blameless. But I wasn’t. I had saved the woman who had killed my husband and abducted my son. I may have been pushed into this grave, but I had allowed myself to be led to its border. The worst of it: I had doubted Sam.
A bug bit my arm, breaking skin.
I had been stupid. Reckless. Cocky in my fury. But while I accepted my blame in this, Sam had paid the greater cost. Soon, Leo would, too, unless I stopped wallowing and got out of this box. When the bug bit again, I brought my elbow down on its carapace, crushing it.
I had taken my death for granted, and then, worse, Leo’s. My head pounded, but I was no longer resigned to what had moments earlier seemed inevitable.
I would not die in this box like Natalie had, fingers fractured and skin broken by hundreds of insect bites.
I pushed my legs as far apart as they would go, creating a valley of my thighs. Not daring to hesitate, I brought them together quickly. Some of the insects were stunned, but others bit. I didn’t care if I emerged bearing the marks of thousands of bites, I wasn’t leaving my son to Brooklyn.
In the darkness, my fingertips took stock of my coffin. It was constructed of old plywood. I let my hands wander along the parts of the box I could reach, searching for more soft spots. Then I worked one of my feet free of its shoe and poked at the bottom of the box with my toe, moving on to probe against the seams.
The box had been well constructed, but it was only as strong as the materials used to craft it. On my second inspection of the lid, I found a soft patch. Water damage. The wood had long since dried, but it remained weaker in that spot.
I beat against the lid with my knees and heard a crack. Somewhere. A few more thwacks and dust rained on my stomach. I shimmied upward a few inches, moving my knees as close to the middle as I could. I hoped this would be the spot left weakest by the heavy earth above it. Again, I rammed my knees against the lid. The wood creaked, threatening to split.
I paused, aware that breaking the box would create another problem. I tried to remember how deep the hole had been before it had been filled with dirt. Once I breached the wood, earth would pour on top of me. But how much dirt? I was pretty sure it had been a shallow grave, but I couldn’t be sure it still wasn’t enough to smother me.
But I had no other options. I resumed my pounding. Finally, a section of the board cracked, and I pushed it with my knee. I fought the impulse to force it completely free. Again, I was reminded how easily I could be suffocated by an avalanche of dirt, or at least immobilized by the heavy earth upon my body.
With one knee acting as a fulcrum, I used my legs and hands to push the dirt toward the box’s edge. I worked quickly, with purpose, packing the corners with dirt, seeing moonlight now, my knees throbbing and my fingers raw with the scraping. I shimmied toward the opening, contorting in the cramped space, muscles pulling in directions they weren’t meant to. Shoveling more dirt away, my fingers found the hole I’d made with my knees. I held my breath, screwed shut my eyes and mouth, clods of dirt hitting my face as I reached through the hole. Fighting against the earth’s weight, I pulled myself through the opening. Coughing. Spitting dirt. But free.
One insect made the journey with me, its mandibles locked on my neck. I brushed it off, then squashed it into the earth with my palm.
No longer entombed, I stood up and heard the same scratching I had before being pushed into the hole, though it was fainter now. I imagined the bodies of those buried here digging with hands of bone, intent on returning me to my rightful place among them.
With as much power as I had left in my burning legs, I ran toward the lights of the house, which seemed impossibly far away.
47
I entered through the kitchen. It was dark, but all the lights blazed in the living room. Damon’s voice carried. “Carver was a piece of crap—that woman, too, for what she took from you—but I’m not hurting a kid.”
“You’re an idiot.”
By Brooklyn’s sharp intake of breath, I guessed Damon had grabbed her. “Yeah, I think I am.”
I risked a step forward, able to see into the living room now. Leo sat on the couch, where he had been the first time I had entered this house. His hands were secured behind him with duct tape, a strip of it also covering his mouth, but his feet were free.
Brooklyn touched Damon’s arm, but her tone was harsh. “His parents are dead anyway. What’s he got to go home to?”
He pushed her away, wiping his palm on his shirt. “You’re a monster. You’re . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence, his face pale, his voice shaky.
“I’m not a monster. I’m a monster’s granddaughter.” Her voice was ice, though I wasn’t sure he recognized the threat.