Page 92 of Chalk Outline

“Hate me all you like, but I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I already know that,” I clarify in a sharp tone. “What I need to know is why I’m here.” I’m not stupid. Every question thatescapes my mouth is for a reason. Every choice I make serves a purpose. Unlike him, I don’t follow anyone; I follow my instincts.

The hairs on my nape bristle as I approach a metal door at the end.

“Fine. You want me to be real, Winona. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m following you. What are you doing?”

“Following a lead.” That right now seems like a dead end.

I pull the key necklace from around my neck. If it opens the tower door, it may open this one like a master key.

I try to jam it into the lock with subtle pressure, but it’s useless. That’s not the key.

That’s probably the generator room. But how did he get in, and I didn’t hear him? If he’d opened the front door, it would’ve made noise since I tied the handle to a chair with a rope.

“What about you hurting me?” That question comes out of nowhere, and its meaning remains vague as it echoes in the tunnel.

“I don’t know what that means, but I found what I was looking for. Now I need the key. If you have it, I will spare you the suffering, Jason. Maybe I’ll help you rub one for good measure.” I stare in disbelief at the words coming out of my mouth.

“If that’s what you want. I will leave it next to your door in a few days. But that door leads to the generator room, just like I said.”

“So, why didn’t you tell me before?”

“It wasn’t important,” he says, disappearing when I call out his name.

“Ahhhhhh,” I scream, my voice becomes hoarse at the end. It bursts out of me and stays lodged inside this tunnel.

Finally.

I chuckle in surprise.

A deep ache I cannot shake overwhelms me. Why do I regret hurting him when he feeds me with half-truths? It feels like I’m hurting my other half.

He is nothim.

Get it through your thick skull.

I glance to my left, and a row of rusty grab handles runs along the wall all the way up to a square steel door with yellowish rust.

I step onto the first handle hesitantly, testing its strength before I start climbing. Reaching the top, I yank the bulkhead door handle toward me, and the seal rubber loosens, followed by a popping sound of a vacuum as I push the door open.

Leaves and snowflakes swirl around me, and the forest comes alive as I lift myself up.

Not a hint of concrete in sight.

My shoulders shake as I let out a low laugh of relief.

That’s how he wanders through the forest. This has to be a sign that the prison is somewhere nearby.

I rush back inside, shutting everything as it was before, and open the front door to see what Jason left me.

A box.

I bend down to pick it up.

Kicking the door shut with my feet as I enter, I set the box on the counter and tug at the lid.

Green fabric, slightly shimmering and soft, rests inside as my fingers gently brush over it.