Page 98 of Wraith

Give her something that’ll make her life better.

I spit more blood and bile at Moose’s feet and give him a crooked smile. The hinges of my jaw pop and crackle as I do so.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

Chapter Forty

June

The dawn light cuts through the gap in the curtains like a knife, thin and merciless, turning the motel room amber and gray. My shoulders stopped screaming hours ago. Now they just exist in this state of white-hot agony that’s become background noise, like tinnitus but made of fire. The handcuff chain scrapes against the wooden headboard post with a rhythm I’ve maintained all night — back and forth, back and forth, like I’m sawing my hope one microscopic groove at a time. The ball gag still fills my mouth, my jaw a swollen ache that radiates up into my temples.

But I don’t stop.

New June doesn’t stop. New June fights.

My wrists are raw hamburger beneath the metal cuffs. Every motion sends fresh pain shooting up my arms, but the alternative is worse. The alternative is lying here waiting for Midnight to walk through that door. Waiting for the Sons to finish what they started when they held me captive the first time. Waiting to die.

So I saw.

And I saw.

And I saw.

The chain catches on a groove in the wood, and I work it harder, feeling the give, feeling something surrender under the relentless friction. My breath comes harsh through my nose, the only sound in this room that’s become my entire world. Sweat runs down my temples, pools in the hollow of my throat, soaks the t-shirt that’s twisted around my ribs. My legs are still spread wide, ankles shackled to the bedposts, muscles cramping from being held in this position for so long.

He left me here.

The thought circles like a vulture; Dylan left me tied to this bed while he walked into his own death, and he did it because he thought he knew better. Because he thought controlling me was the same as loving me. Because Old Dylan never died at all — he just wore a better mask.

I loved him.

I still love him, and I hate myself for it.

The chain bites deeper into the groove. My shoulders are beyond pain now, beyond anything except this hollow burning that feels like my joints are turning to ash. But I think of that apartment I wanted. The dog. The job at Bistro Bellisimo with the cream-colored help wanted sign. A normal life where I get to make my own choices and be responsible for my future. That life is still out there. It has to be. And I’m going to live long enough to get it, even if that means sawing through this headboard one microscopic fiber at a time.

The wood creaks.

I freeze, then work the chain harder, desperate now. The creak becomes a groan. Something is giving way. Something is breaking. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I pull with everything I have left, the chain scraping, the wood protesting, and then —

Crack.

The sound is small but definitive. I feel the headboard post split where I’ve been working it, feel the chain suddenly have more play. I yank my arms down, and the chain slides free from the post, my hands coming together in front of my chest. Still cuffed. Still bound. But free from the headboard.

Hope.

A sob tries to tear through me, but the gag swallows it. I sit up, my spine protesting every inch of movement, my shoulders screaming as they come forward from being stretched above my head for so long. My hands shake as I reach for the gag strap, fumbling with the buckle with fingers that barely work. It takes three tries before I get it undone, before I can pull the silicone ball from my mouth. My jaw cracks as it closes, sending fresh pain radiating through my face. I work it carefully, tasting blood where I’ve bitten my tongue or cheeks during the night.

The ankle shackles are next. I lean forward, my abs cramping with the effort, and reach for the cuffs around my right ankle. The key. Where did he put the key? My eyes scan the nightstand, the dresser, looking for the small brass key that opens these restraints. But I already know. He took it with him. Of course, he took it with him.

Because he was coming back. He thought he was coming back to explain everything, to make me understand, to convince me that betraying me was actually loving me.

He’s not coming back.

The Sons have him now, and they’re doing to him exactly what I knew they would do. Torturing him. Breaking him.

And when they’re done, they’ll come here for me.

I’m still working on the ankle cuff, trying to see if there’s any weakness in the mechanism, when I hear it.