There’s a familiar wooden box next to the bills. It holds a gun. I’m not super familiar with firearms. Whether it’s loaded or not is a mystery, and I don’t intend to find out. Sure, having a weapon when I’m traveling alone would probably be smart, but I’m likely to end up shooting myself in the foot.
Next to the box, there’s a green velvet sack. It holds rubies, emeralds, and other jewels my mom collected in her youth during adventures when she was a bit of a hippie. Every shiny object marks a special place, and there’s a story to go along with each one. Some were gifts from the men she used to date. Others are souvenirs she picked up from random cities.
I envy her for that—for the fact that she had years of drifting around the country with endless spontaneity and no direction.
When I was little, she used to let me play with her treasures while she told me stories about them by the fireplace. Every memory she had always turned into some sort of cautionary tale. She molded her glory days into warnings about the dangers of the world, and at the time, I believed her. That was before we started butting heads. Back then, I was okay with it just being the two of us.
Then I got older, and I started wanting more.
I started wanting to make my own mistakes.
The clock starts chiming, telling me I need to go, so I close the safe. I shove the flashlight into my fanny pack, zipping it as I go back to the laundry chute and climb inside.
The rest of the way down is easy. Instead of folding my legs up against my body, I let them extend downward.
Using the rubber on the bottom of my shoes, I press my feet against the metal to slow my descent. It makes little squeaks, which I’m hyperaware of, so I decide to free fall to the bottom.
Like a slide, the tunnel starts to curve and flatten out.
I get ejected onto my pile of clothes. The landing is ungraceful—I roll to the side and end up with my face squished against the cold, musty concrete, but I’m not hurt.
Sitting up, I brush myself off.
“That wasn’t so bad.” I can’t believe I’m almost out of here.
My backpack is a couple feet away, and after checking on my laptop to make sure it didn’t get busted, I zero in on the old red toolbox.
Inside, there’s a variety of rusty tools. I’ll need them because the windows down here are sealed shut, which is the only reason they’re not hooked up to our alarm system—no one is supposed to be able to get in or out.
It’s going to take some effort to get one open. During a previous practice trip to the basement, I scraped away some of the sealant, but I’m going to have to remove the entire pane to get out of here.
After collecting what I need, I drag a sturdy-looking wooden crate over to the window and step up onto it. Then I get to work, hammering the chisel around the outside and dismantling the crank with the screwdriver.
“Got it,” I whisper excitedly as the entire window loosens in my hands.
The air coming in is colder than I thought it’d be, and my fingers almost instantly go numb. I’m not even outside yet, and I’m already shivering.
This is going to suck.
As I carefully set the window on the floor, I notice the trail I’ve left behind. The pile of clothes, the tools, the crate.
Evidence.
Well, my mother won’t have any trouble guessing exactly how I got out.
Not much I can do about that now.
I push my backpack outside, then I hoist myself up.
It’s more difficult than it looks.
Since the opening is only about fifteen inches tall and two feet wide, I don’t have much room to struggle, and I end up flailing with my body half in and half out.
But I don’t give up. I didn’t make it this far to get stuck with my face in the dirt.
Digging my fingers into the soft earth, I claw and climb. I like it. I haven’t played in the mud in years, and I enjoy the way it cakes under my nails.
I keep going until my butt is out.
Once I crawl to the grass, I drag my backpack over to me and collapse on my back.
I’m not in shape for this, but I feel good.
Alive.
My lungs work overtime, pulling in the crisp night air and exhaling in visible foggy puffs. At least the sky is clear. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the stars from somewhere other than my window.
A feeling of hope and happiness comes over me. I know that’s partly the medicine’s doing, but I don’t care. Blissed out, I close my eyes and run my fingers over the cool green blades of our lawn.
Snap.
A twig somewhere to my right breaks, and I don’t have to be an expert to know it didn’t happen naturally.
Someone’s out here with me. Or maybe something.
I’m actually hoping it’s a wild animal and not my mother, because I’d rather take my chances with a bear than her.
It could be a totally harmless deer.
Either way, I need to haul ass.
Rolling over, I grab the strap on my backpack.
Just as I stand, the air changes. I feel a presence behind me, and before I have a chance to run, an arm wraps around my middle while a gloved hand clamps over my mouth.
For a second, I assume it’s my mom, but she doesn’t wear gloves. Also, the person feels big and strong, like they’re surrounding me. They must be at least a foot taller than I am.
I start to struggle, but their face lowers next to mine, and I feel something rough and prickly on my jaw. Facial hair. I’ve never felt a beard before, but I know that’s what it is.
Definitely not Mom.
My mother has often talked about being a target for people who want things from her. That’s why security is so important. Honestly, I always thought she was just being paranoid with the alarm system and the surveillance cameras.
“Don’t scream,” a deep raspy voice whispers in my ear. I draw in a breath through my nose to do just that when his hold on me tightens. “I’m serious, Rosalie. Don’t, or else you’re never getting out of here.”
I try to say, “How do you know my name?” but it comes out all muffled under his hand.
“If I let you go, do you promise to be quiet?”
I give a nod.
He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he should believe me or not.
I’m not sure if he should either.
I realize if I wake my mom, my entire plan is blown. But that’s better than getting robbed, raped, brutally murdered, or any combination of the three.
I don’t want to end up being featured in my own documentary. While I love watching them, I’d rather not be on one myself.
My attacker doesn’t remove his hand from my face or his arm from my body, but he does loosen his grip a fraction. There’s a warmth coming from him, and there’s a sudden softness to his touch.
And it doesn’t feel like I’m trapped. It’s more like I’m being… held.
Surprising sensations suddenly arise. Pleasant ones.
Standing here, locked together, my body starts reacting in a disconcerting way.
The smell of leather, citrus, and spice invade my nose. Cold wind blows, and my nipples pucker beneath the constricting sports bra. The man’s fingers move to my wrist, and his thumb rubs up and down in a soothing way inside the cuffs of my two sweatshirts.
My stomach tumbles until it feels like it lands between my legs. Against my own will, I relax, my body melting into his. There’s a firmness to his chest and arms. Like he works out. I have the overwhelming urge to let my head fall back and feel his scruff on my cheek again.