Page 133 of Nothing But Air

Marcus groaned from where he lay against the wall, his condition deteriorating.

“We’re pinned down.” Eden’s voice was hollow.

She looked at her injured wrist. At Marcus’s pale face. At Teague beside her with nowhere to go.

All because of her judgment.

Her choices.

Her failure to see what was right in front of her.

And now there was nothing she could do to fix it.

Fifteen

The good news: Marcus’s stick to Kyle’s head had bought them time. The bad news: “time” meant “trapped in an overhang with a murderer hunting them and exactly zero good options.”

Teague scanned the shallow shelter, looking for options they didn’t have. The rain had stopped—small mercies—but Kyle was still out there. Still armed. Still blocking every route down.

His headlamp caught something at the back of the overhang. A gap in the rock face, partially hidden by shadow.

A passage. Maybe three feet wide. Angling upward.

“Found something.” He moved closer. “It goes up.”

Eden crouched as she made her way over, cradling her injured wrist. “Please tell me ‘up’ leads to ‘out.’”

“Can’t tell from here. But the stone looks solid. Good holds.” He traced his headlamp along the visible section. “Steep but climbable.”

“Define climbable.”

“I can climb it.”

“That’s not reassuring. You’d climb a vertical sheet of ice if someone dared you.” She peered into the darkness. “We have one rope. No anchors. No protection. And I have a sprained wrist.”

“You forgot the part where there’s a murderer waiting outside.”

“I was saving the best for last.”

“So our options are: stay here and wait for Kyle to make his way to us, or climb into the unknown with inadequate gear.” Teague shrugged. “I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”

“It’s Monday.”

“Even better. Mondays are always good days.”

“Mondays are never good days.”

“I guess that changes today.”

Eden almost smiled. Almost. “Your optimism is either inspiring or delusional. I can’t decide which.”

“Why not both?”

He turned to Marcus, who’d opened his eyes. The man looked terrible—gray-faced, pupils uneven in the headlamp light. Concussion at a minimum.

“Can you stand? We need to move.”

Marcus tried to push himself up. His arms gave out. He slumped back against the wall.