There isn’t a mirror hanging on the wall over the sink, just empty white space. It’s probably better, I think, as I switch the faucet on and off. I don’t want to know what I look like after spending the night in a bloody, smoky basement. I check over my shoulder again and again to make sure the bathtub behind me stays empty. With my back to it, I find myself picturing Brooklyn sitting inside, blood and muddy water streaming from her hair.
It takes a while for water to spurt out of the faucet, and this time it’s not muddy and thick, just a little brown. I run the water over my hands, cringing when it hits the skin at my knuckles and around my fingernails.
There’s a hair tie next to the faucet, a pink one with a strand of brown hair curled around it. I flick it to the floor, wondering if there’s a single room in this house Riley hasn’t been. I put my hands back below the water, and, after a moment, it actually feels good. I close my eyes, keeping my hands below the stream until the cold turns them numb.
I turn the faucet off and open my eyes again, glancing back down at the sink just as a cicada pokes its head from the drain. I choke down a scream and stumble back so quickly that my feet bang against the tub and I have to grab hold of the wall to keep myself from falling inside. The cicada crawls out of the drain and into the sink, wings spreading.
Someone bangs on the door. “Sofia! Hurry, we need your help.”
Straightening, I unlock the door and pull it open, one eye on the cicada inching across the counter as I slip into the hallway. My skin tingles when I pull the door shut behind me.
“Watch your head,” Alexis says, and I duck out of the way as she slides a ladder from the door in the ceiling. Behind her, Grace and Riley drag Brooklyn down the hallway by her arms. I watch her for signs that she’s starting to wake, but she doesn’t move.
Riley stops at the foot of the ladder. She lets go of Brooklyn’s arm, and there’s a sick thud as it drops to the floor.
“Sof, you’ll have to hold her around her chest and go up backward,” Riley says, nodding toward the attic. “Then Grace and I can each take a leg.”
“You want to take her to the attic?” I ask. The attic is dark—darker than the basement or the hall next to the kitchen. I doubt there are any windows.
“The basement was getting too smoky,” Riley says, wrinkling her nose. “And the attic has a good lock, so there’s no chance she’ll get away again. Lexie, why don’t you run downstairs and get the candles? It’ll give us some light.”
Obedient as ever, Alexis nods. Her bare feet slap against the floor as she heads down the hallway. Riley takes one of Brooklyn’s legs and Grace shuffles forward, doing the same.
“Sof,” Riley says, nodding at Brooklyn’s chest. “We need your help.”
Reluctantly, I slide my arms around Brooklyn’s torso and lift her off the ground. My hands tighten around her chest, and I feel the faint thump thump of her heartbeat just below her rib cage. Relief floods through me. She’s alive.
The three of us slowly make our way up the stairs, stopping every few seconds to redistribute Brooklyn’s weight among us. The attic stairs are too steep to go up backward without holding on to anything, so I keep one arm wrapped around Brooklyn’s chest and the other hooked over the rickety railing attached to the ladder. Brooklyn isn’t heavy, but her body still threatens to slip from my grip.
Finally, we make it into the attic. Raw wooden beams and pink insulation form the walls, and the ceiling angles sharply upward. Stacks of faded Vogue magazines sit in the corners, next to Ziploc bags filled with nail polish bottles and an old hair straightener. Empty beer and wine bottles line an entire wall of the attic, arranged by height.
“What is all this?” I ask, panting as we drag Brooklyn off the ladder and onto the unfinished attic floor. Riley glances up and shrugs.
“I come here on my own sometimes,” she says. “Just to get away from home.”
From the look of things, she comes here all the time. I keep my head ducked until we get Brooklyn to the center of the room, where a thick wooden beam juts up from the floor. Then I lean against another wooden beam, exhausted from my climb up the stairs. The tiny circular window on the far wall looks out over the main street.
I steal a glance out the window, still hoping Josh got my text message and he’s on his way now. But the street is empty, and steely black clouds cover the moon, bathing everything in darkness.
“Grace, get me that rope,” Riley says, pointing to a metal toolbox next to the wall. Next to the toolbox is the bright yellow nail gun she used to nail the bathroom window shut earlier. I stare down at it, wondering when she brought it up here.
Riley positions Brooklyn against the beam, and when Grace hands her the rope, she begins winding it around Brooklyn’s body until there’s a thick layer of rope binding Brooklyn in place. Her head lolls forward, and her chin rests against her chest.
“There,” Riley says, knotting the rope behind Brooklyn. “That should hold her.”
“We left the backpack downstairs,” Grace says. She hovers near the ladder, one hand still gripping the wooden railing. “I’ll get it.”
Grace climbs down the ladder. Once her head is out of view, Riley turns to me, but before she can say a word, a sharp, clear ringing cuts through the house. The doorbell. Riley’s face hardens. My heart jumps in my chest—Josh.
Riley races to the ladder and starts to the second floor, going so fast the rickety wood creaks and groans beneath her weight. I head for the ladder to follow her, but Riley jumps the rest of the way down. She grabs the bottom of the ladder and starts sliding it back into place.
“Watch her,” she yells up at me.
“Wait!” I cry out as Riley pushes the ladder up. The door closes, and there’s a clicking sound as it locks into place. “Riley!” I shout, banging on the floor. I work the lever to get the ladder to release, but it holds, tight. The doorbell rings again. Heavy footsteps race down the stairs.
Shit, I think to myself. She did this on purpose. I push myself to my feet and run across the attic to the window. I press my face up to the glass and squint out onto the street. A bright red pickup is parked by the side of the road. Someone’s in the front seat, his arm resting on the open window.
I recognize the rumpled shirt immediately.
“Charlie!” I slam my hand against the window hard, hoping the glass will shatter. “Charlie!” My voice starts to go hoarse, but I don’t care—I shout anyway. “Look up! Look up!”
The front door swings open downstairs, and low voices sound just below me. If Charlie hears me at all he doesn’t show it. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, then motions impatiently to Josh at the front door. The voices downstairs get louder—it sounds like he and Riley are arguing. I curl my hand into a fist and bang it against the window. The glass shudders, but it doesn’t break.
“Sofia?” The voice is weak and raspy. I stop pounding on the glass and turn around. Brooklyn lifts her head and her eyelids flutter open.
“You’re awake!” I crouch next to Brooklyn, studying her face. She cringes and tries to move her arm, but the rope holds her tight.
“Fuck,” she says, pulling against the rope. “Where am I?”
“Attic.” I crawl over to her and try to pull the ropes away with my hands, but they’re knotted, tightly, behind her back. “We’re locked up here together.” Outside, a car engine roars to life.
“No.” I stand and turn around to face the window. A flash of white cuts across the street as the truck lights turn on. I press my face to the glass just in time to watch the pickup pull away from the house.