“I guess I could drive down to Portland and steal a shotgun, but it’s not easy to hide or cart around. We need a handgun.”
“A handgun,” I murmur, feeling fidgety. I don’t want to shoot anyone—not even Justin. But if that’s my only way out then …
“Do you have friends from like, Prescott High or something?” Chasm asks, and Maxx snorts.
“Just because I attend college in the same town where a high school shooting took place doesn’t mean I know anyone there nor do I have access to illegal firearms obtained by teenagers. Nice try though.” I watch as Maxx settles his head back against the window, long legs tucked up on the seat again.
Maybe they’re right? I mean, we’re quite literally tangled up in a life-or-death game with a serial killer. But dear god, this is escalating fast. From smashing a car window with a typewriter to searching for guns.
I shake the conversation off for now, sitting in tense silence as we head back to the hospital and hop out of the car. I’m trembling with adrenaline as we head back inside and then down the stairs. Maxx hefts the bolt cutters up and slices through the chain with a grunt and a flexing of his arm muscles.
The coiled length of chain slithers to the floor with a clank as Maxx grabs one of the door handles with his right hand and pulls it open, holding it aside so that Chasm and I can pass by. The hall down here is nearly pitch-black, and I shiver in the cold, damp air as Maxx uses a stone we grabbed from outside to prop the door open.
“Parrish?” I call out, voice echoing in the darkness.
As soon as Maxx shines his flashlight along the wall opposite us, I see them.
Old, rusted metal bars. More specifically, doors. Like jail cell doors. He drops the light to the lock and my heartbeat gets so loud that it deafens me to everything else, even my own breathing.
I stumble forward, shoving the key into the lock. It slides right in, but it’s so rusted that it takes some force to turn it, ancient tumblers sliding free. I don’t wait even half a second before I throw the door wide and stumble in.
There’s … nothing.
I mean, like, literally nothing except for some leaves on the floor.
“Huh,” Chasm remarks, looking around at the cell with its cement floors, peeling paint, and barred window that rests near the roofline. I think at one point, it must’ve let some decent light in, but over time, dirt has filled in the lower part of the egress window. It’s just dark and dirty now. “This must be just one of many cells, yeah?”
The room gets almost impossibly dark as Maxx redirects the flashlight for a brief moment.
“Yep,” he agrees, turning the light back on us. “Dozens of them.”
“The key fits,” I say, hefting it in my palm. “Clearly, Parrish isn’t here, but we’re on the right track. Let’s search every room. Anything you find is a clue. Pay special attention to room fourteen—if there even is a room fourteen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” X declares, but with all due seriousness. Chas and I follow the beam of his flashlight, searching the rooms one by one. The skeleton key, of course, is able to unlock every cell door without a problem. Where did Justin get this key? Why did he send it to me? What’s the significance of this place anyway?
I decide that I’m going to ask him tonight at dinner. Maybe he’ll tell me, maybe not, but it’s worth a shot.
Not all of the rooms are empty. Some have mattresses in them. Some have the metal frames of beds without mattresses. No room has both of those things in tandem. There are quite a few shoes, a jacket, a pair of rolled up socks, and quite a few books.
“To Kill A Mockingbird,” Chasm says, reading the title of one of them. Considering that Tess is a writer, and I found the diner clue in one of her books, this feels promising to me. Although, to be fair, it looks like most of the books have been down here forever. The pages are yellowed and curling, some of them are thick and puffy with moisture and tinged with mold, and all of them are covered with a fine layer of dust and debris. “Animal Farm. 1984. Moby Dick.” He starts making a stack in the hall, and I join him while Maxx keeps the flashlight moving for us.
“The Catcher in the Rye. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” I sit back on my heels and take a deep breath. It’s a veritable library in here.
“Sounds like a high school reading list just”—Maxx slides his hand through the air for emphasis—“threw up all over this place.”
