Shaking his shoulders to expel his nervous tension, Salem turned and made his way up what remained of the front steps. He dissolved into the doorway of his half-dismantled home to wait, his eyes shining silver and green like a feral cat from the shadows.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Isabella Cruz hadn’t let him touch her again after he’d initially held her. It’d been two days since he’d been thrown down in the cellar, and he’d been working the entire time to gain the child’s trust. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get out or if he could even defend her if he had to. All he knew was that he’d try. He’d die trying, actually.
She hadn’t left the corner, despite all of Brooks’s efforts to cajole her. He now knew not to force any physical contact on her. From the look of her, it was going to take years of therapy both physically and mentally to repair what the animals upstairs had done to her. He was nauseous—the smell of rot and human waste settling into his nose in a way that he knew would always trigger dark memories of the hell these men had created from an old farmhouse.
The little girl, Isabella, had only spoken in Spanish since his arrival, and not to him. She’d faced the wall, her shoulders jutting out from the filthy T-shirt she was wearing and whispered into the shadows. He’d never paid that much attention in Spanish class, and he kicked himself for it now. He could only make out “Mamá,” and no matter how he tried to communicate with her, he got nothing back. She only stared at him with eyes furious and bright in her fragile little skull. He’d tried to move toward her a few times, but she’d scuttled back into the corner shadows like an insect taking shelter after its rock had been overturned.
They’d done that to her. They’d made an animal out of a child.
His head ached, more from thinking than the beating the men upstairs had given him. He’d paced the entire cellar multiple times, trying to find anything he could use to defend the two of them.
There was nothing.
Sometime around his thirtieth hour in the stinking damp, his composure had left him, and he’d raged up the stairs to kick and pound his fists against the door. It was steel enforced. Of course it was. All his hammering and screaming had done was frighten the girl more. When his rage had drained out of his aching hands, he’d turned to see her standing at the foot of the stairs. She was shaking her sweat-matted head.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”
It was the first time he’d heard her speak English, and he was struck dumb. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but there was a strength in her voice that he himself had lost a long time ago.
“He’ll come down here. Please don’t make him come down here.”
Stupidly, he stumbled down the first few steps to get to her. This was his window. Maybe now he could get some information about what had happened to her. Maybe now he could help her, do his job like he was supposed to. As soon as he began his awkward descent, she was gone, her legs crusted with dry blood and her feet slapping against the concrete as she raced back to her corner. He’d been embarrassed then. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. He sat heavily on the bottom step and rested his head in his hands. He could feel his growing bald spot through his fingers where he cradled his still-swollen skull.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. “They’ll be coming soon, okay? As soon as they know I’m gone, they’ll send others. They’ll send the police, honey, okay? I promise I’ll get you out of here.”
He didn’t expect a response. He’d been talking to her almost constantly since he’d been tossed down the stairs. He’d even resorted to personal details, just to try to get something out of her. He’d told the mute little girl about his dogs at home, his favorite bike when he was growing up—once when he was nodding off in an opposite corner to her, he’d even heard himself tell her about his wife, about her death and how he couldn’t sleep in his bed anymore because it still smelled like her. He hadn’t thought he’d ever tell anyone that, much less a traumatized child hiding in the spiderwebs of a cellar.
From his position at the bottom of the stairs, he looked up at the small window. It’d been boarded up, and the only way they could determine the time of day was by the changing light through the crooked slats. The light was blue, which meant the third day was coming to a close.
He repeated more to himself than to the girl, “They’re coming, I know they’re coming.”
“I believe you.” Her voice was small, but it was the loudest thing he’d heard for days. It was the loudest thing he thought he’d ever heard. Brooks stood up, his head swimming from lack of food and water. He was about to stumble over to her again when he heard the unmistakable rattle of car wheels on gravel. A lot of car wheels on gravel.
“Jesus Christ.” Brooks changed direction and was at the window in a second. He peered through the crooked wood to see four police cars and a van roar up the long driveway. “Thank God. Thank God,” he heard himself mumbling. He was pounding on the glass with his still-sore fists, his yelling bouncing off the dirty glass and filling the basement.
He was shocked to feel two small hands tugging at the back of his shirt. He spun around to see the child behind him, yanking on his bloodied shirttails, her eyes pleading with him. “No, don’t!” she said, her voice cracking from disuse. She was pulling him away from the window, her elfin face looking toward the noise growing outside the door at the top of the stairs.
The upstairs exploded with noise. Footsteps, so heavy they sent dust sprinkling from above, pounded up and down the floorboards. Brooks heard the men upstairs screaming at each other, their voices muffled but frantic and high-pitched. He knew that tone well enough. That was the tone of a man about to get either caught or killed. Brooks was hoping for both.
Before he could think better of it, Brooks swung the girl up into his arms. She shrieked, her entire body stiffening against him. He could feel the sick heat of her for the first time, her feverish skin pressed against his shoulder as he rushed her from the window.
The sound of pounding feet was all around them. The ceiling rattled with the stamping of boots, and a chorus of voices shouted commands and curses alternately. There was a loud crash as the front door was knocked in, followed by a sudden hail of gunfire, popping and thundering above them.
The girl shook in his arms with every shot. His eyes on the door to the cellar, he barely registered the feeling of her arms wrapping around his neck. She sank into him, trembling now, lighter than a backpack against him.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said. “We’re getting out of here, sweetheart. We’re getting out.”
The girl screamed as the cellar door was kicked open. Brooks tensed, his ear ringing where her shriek had deafened him. He didn’t care. The thrill of her finally trusting him was enough that he was willing to run into the gunfire, if that was what it’d take to get her out of here.
Brooks was standing now, his arms wrapped around Isabella, his teeth gritted as he prepared for whoever was about to rush down into the room. If it was those bastards, that skinny psycho and his dumb-fuck inbred brothers, he’d use his teeth to rip out their throats if he had to. Nobody was touching the child in his arms. Nobody.
Police department-issue boots clattered down the stairs.
“Brooks,” a familiar voice barked. “Brooks, you down there?”
“I’m here,” he called back. His legs were so weak he felt himself drop to the ground. His knees had given out, and he was falling backward. He turned his body to avoid dropping Isabella, keeping her tight to him as the hard concrete met his tailbone.
“Holy shit.” His partner stood over him, his gun drawn and a look of shock on his face. He turned to the walkie on his shoulder and pressed the comm button, never taking his eye off the broken pile of humans before him. “Kevin, I’m going to need paramedics in the cellar immediately, repeat, paramedics in the cellar.”
Detective Cruz opened the window of the car. She’d been hoping for a quick exit, but she sh
ould’ve known better. There was no way he was going to let her go without a fight either. She’d seen the looks he’d been flashing her when he thought she hadn’t noticed lately. There was a crush there, of course, but it was the protectiveness she saw beneath it that made her the most uncomfortable. She’d had enough of that lately.
Kyle jogged across the parking lot. Bella sighed and swung her arm out the window, watching her partner’s face and preparing herself for what she knew was going to be yet another lecture of some sort.
He wouldn’t lecture if he didn’t care. They all lecture because they care; you’re just too much of a bitch to accept it.
Bella looked at herself in the rearview mirror. She looked haggard, but that would happen with no sleep and Olympic-record running sessions.
The car was idling, belching clouds of exhaust into growing cold of twilight. Kyle ducked his furry, handsome head into the car. “You have everything?” he asked, short of breath.
“Jesus, Kyle. Really? Yes, I have everything.”
He smiled, still a bit out of breath. There were wrinkles around his eyes she hadn’t noticed before—delicate laugh lines like a tattoo he couldn’t hide. He would never be tough. Not like she was tough, and not like Brooks either. He was the kind of person that could walk through the most harrowing events life could offer and still find something to laugh about. Maybe that’s what was going to eventually make him a better cop than she could ever be.
“I was going to pack you a lunch.” He leaned in, resting his elbows on the open window. “But I wasn’t sure what kind of sandwich you liked.”
An unfamiliar wave of affection rolled over Bella. It shocked her, unsettled her, and she looked away from his handsome face where it grinned down at her. “Good call. I’m not big on sandwiches in general.” She fiddled with the knobs on the dash, her hands feeling useless.
“Do me a favor, will you?” His voice had changed, and she didn’t like it. Bella made eye contact with him. There was nothing but concern and sincerity on his face, and he searched hers. But for what?
“Depends what it is,” she said, doing her best to sound bored. She wasn’t. Her stomach twitched in places she hadn’t felt in years.
“Come back alive? I don’t want to sound like your dad here, but damn, I don’t want to lose you any more than he does. Sure, you’re a hard-ass, but you’re my hard-ass. I can’t do this godforsaken job without you.”
Bella’s face ignited. She felt her cheeks burning, and the strange high-school twitching in her stomach turned into a convulsion. She tried to look anywhere but at him, but he made it impossible. He filled up her entire view, leaning into her window, his hair catching the rain that was starting to fall, the dryer-fresh smell of him sneaking into her senses and making it hard for her to think.
Before she knew it, she’d moved her hand from where it white-knuckled the steering wheel and placed it over his. His flesh was warm, the heavy masculine bones of his fingers covered with a surprising softness. She’d never touched him before. Two years of spending almost every day together and she’d not so much as hugged him.
She’d stopped breathing.
“Don’t follow me, Kyle,” she said.
“What?” Kyle crooked an eyebrow.
“Don’t follow me. Please.”
Bella took her hand off his and slammed the car into drive. He barely had time to step back before she tore out of the lot and into the city. She was on her own now, with only one short journey left before she left this cruel world for good.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Look at you.
Look at you.
You don’t even have the balls to get out of the car. You’re sitting in the driveway like a fool.
Bella looked up at the remains of the house in front of her, and it stared right back. Kyle was right: at least half of it had been destroyed by time and disuse. Where it had once been a grand old Victorian home, the kind that most of Portland would pay millions for, it was now completely unlivable. It was a shell, rotting away in the overgrown grass and vines that seemed to be holding all its rapidly disintegrating parts together.
The windows of the parts of the home still standing glared down at her. She arched herself over the steering wheel to get a better look. Some were filled with broken glass like teeth, and some were stuffed with a darkness within so deep it made her shudder. This house might be a shell now, but there was still something occupying it. Something that couldn’t be broken. Something she might not be strong enough to beat.
Stupid little girl, begging your boss to let you come here and you can’t even get out of the car.
You’re damaged goods.
Bella steadied her hands.
“Keep it together,” she muttered. She’d been gripping the steering wheel so tight from the moment she’d left the Portland city limits that her hands ached when she finally removed them. Blood flew back to her knuckles, causing the stretched, white skin to return to its normal pinkish hue. Looking down at them in the darkened cab of the car, they shook, small enough to be the hands of a child, white and frail in her lap. But she wasn’t a child anymore—she was a woman. A hard-ass woman, as Kyle had called her. A hard-ass woman who had a score to settle.
Taking a deep breath, Bella moved her shaking hands to the door and opened it. She’d wanted to kick it open and jump out with both barrels blazing, but her police instincts had stopped her. Not that it mattered. If Salem really was here, he already knew she’d arrived.
The gravel underfoot sounded like gunshots as she walked toward the porch. Her mind barked and frothed like guard dogs on a leash, throwing up memories she’d worked for years to suppress. It was as if every step closer brought another image, another sensation, the ghost of another smell up from where she’d buried it. Even the smell of the dirt rising from the field behind was eerily familiar. Although she’d only smelled it for a short time, the fetid stench of rotting vegetation and wet wood was as familiar as if she’d grown up with it.
And she kind of did. Her childhood had ended in that basement.
Bella put her foot on the first step. She found herself staring down at the small window that she knew looked out from the cellar. Her hand ached again as the memory of reaching through the tiny crack to grab the neighbor’s dog hit her with enough force to knock her breath away. She looked away, closing her eyes and trying to steady herself.
Keep it together.
She opened her eyes again and continued up the stairs. The closer she came to the house, the stronger the assault on her senses. Was that their voices inside? Could she actually hear the continual drone of Salem’s television collection coming from behind the front door? She stopped again and drew her gun from its holster. The weight of it in her hand calmed her. She gripped it, willing the phantom pains that shot through her pelvis away along with the nausea that’d settled in the base of her throat. She was going to end this. Tonight.
A gust of wind curled around the house, causing the dead leaves on the ivy to ripple like the house was shuddering awake. Although she jumped internally, the feeling of her gun kept her steady. Breathing through her nose, she reached out with her free hand and turned the knob on the front door.
Freezing her in place, something pressed into the back of her neck. She stiffened, a high-pitched gasp betraying her. It was cold and hard, buried right in the base of her skull where a single bullet could end her with the twitch of a finger.
The voice in her ear seemed to come from everywhere at once. It was the voice of the dying house in front of her, the voice of the field full of rotting crops, the voice of the cellar, still waiting beneath where she stood.
It was Salem Ross, bringing her nightmares to life.
“Welcome home, my little duckling.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
He was tall. Taller than the black trees behind him. Tall enough to block out the remaining glare from the streetlights. Tall enough to block out all the light left in the world.
Bell
a stood in his shadow, her gun at his feet where she’d dropped it like a clumsy child. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was leering at her. She could smell his excitement rise off him like heat from a pavement, sour and rotten just like everything else in this place. He took a step closer, his gun held out between them and redirected his aim at her chest.
Salem had wrapped his wounded arm, and it hung in a sling from his neck. Even in the dark, Bella saw the blood from where she’d shot him still seeping into the bandages. If only she’d managed a better aim.
“Where are my manners?” he said, his voice low and soothing. “I should invite you in. What kind of host am I?”
“A psychotic one.”
Salem laughed. It was a hollow sound, lost in the acres of decay that surrounded them. “Pick up your gun for me, would you?”
Bella glared up into the shadow of his face. She wasn’t about to do a damn thing for him. She stayed still, her hands up in a foolish pose of submission.
“Pick it up, duckling. I’d do it myself, but someone thought it would be a good idea to shoot me a few days ago. Any idea who that was?” There was a click that Bella recognized as the cock of his gun. He raised it from its position at her chest to her forehead. “Pick. It. Up.”
Bella bent at the knees and carefully took her gun from where it lay between them. The muzzle of Salem’s gun was trained between her eyes, following her every movement.
“Now, throw it away. We won’t be needing that. Right there, into the bushes.” Salem nodded to where a patch of blackberry bushes was strangling the trees to the right. Bella obediently tossed it, the rustling sound of the thorny bushes swallowing it up and making her stomach sink. Maybe she should’ve listened to the house. Maybe she really couldn’t keep it together.
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