Beach Thriller(86)
Thick stone walls hold in the cool air and keep the light dim. A lone window sits high in the wall, almost touching the ceiling. It’s ten feet off the ground and set into the stone, creating a sill that’s about a foot deep.
A decorative metal grate covers the opening to the window. The wine must be valuable. Even if someone broke the window from outside, they couldn’t get into this vault. The grate is made of sturdy wrought iron, with intricate scrollwork and sharp pointed spikes on both ends.
The glow of daylight slipping through is a cruel reminder of freedom that’s frustratingly out of reach. The light is low and faint. Is it close to dawn? My body aches like I’ve been here forever.
As I take in my surroundings, memories rush back. Elizabeth. Her pills. The music. Conrad pulling me out from under the bed. Our verbal altercation in his office. Then…? Conrad grabbing me from behind. His expensive watch was the last thing I saw before I woke up in this wine cellar turned prison cell.
Wherever I am, it doesn’t look like anyone has been in this room for a long time. The bottles are covered in a fine coating of dust and old cobwebs. The dust is likely the reason for my itchy, swollen eyes.
Using a nearby wine rack as support, I pull myself up to standing, but I’m wobbly. My legs are like Jell-O. My mouth is painfully dry, my throat raw. A powerful thirst weakens me further.
The damp air settles into my bones. Slowly I release my grip on the wine rack, wrapping my arms around my chest for warmth. It’s a good thing my legs don’t buckle.
Across from the window is an arched wooden door. Its surface shows deep grain lines, darkened by age. The door appears sturdy. Large nails secure rusty iron hinges into the ancient wood. I pray it’s not locked—but something tells me God isn’t listening right now.
I stagger a few steps until my body slams against the door. I fumble for the metal handle, gripping it to keep myself upright. Pressing down the lever, I hope to release the door latch. It moves without any resistance, but I don’t hear a click. I pull on the handle, not surprised when the door won’t budge. I pull harder this time, but the results are the same. When I press my eye against the keyhole, I confirm my suspicions. Diffuse lighting illuminates a small stone landing outside the door, and beyond that are the tower stairs sloping upward out of view.
I’m down in the bowels of Miramar—maybe twelve feet underground, with a lone barricaded window high above me.
Patting my pockets for my phone, I remember I dropped it when Conrad abducted me. The key ring I always keep in my pocket—and that I hoped might hold the key to this door—is gone. Rage and panic build in my chest, the pressure so intense it feels like a bomb about to explode. I’m back in lockup, but my instincts tell me this is much worse.
I turn my attention back to the window. I’ve never felt so trapped, so hopeless, so alone.
I make a noise I didn’t know was possible. It’s like the call of a wild animal or the scream of a banshee. The wail explodes from my lips, but no one, not a soul, is around to hear it.
Chapter 49
Holly
Holly sat on the beach, watching the sun rise over the ocean, light reflecting off the surf, which was especially rough today. Maybe there was a storm brewing out at sea. The wild, crashing waves against the shore felt like a prelude to disaster.
“Not Jade,” she whispered. “Not Jade.”
She had been awake all night worrying, and still no word. Her call to the police was even less helpful than she expected. At least she spoke to Finn, not Tommy Boy. Holly gave him Jade’s name, her useless parents’ phone number, and explained how the missing girl had disappeared again.
“We’ll look for her, I’ll put the word out there. Just know runaway teens are notoriously hard to locate when they don’t want to be found.”
“But I have reason to believe she’s in danger—that maybe this time, she didn’t run.”
“From my experience, the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Holly, I understand you don’t trust the Carmichaels, but you have no real reason to believe Jade is in any trouble. Now, I know you’ve been through a hellish week—looking at the evidence from your sister’s case, finding the lawyer’s body—I’m sure there’s a lot of trauma coming up.”
Holly had felt crestfallen. Even Finn didn’t take her seriously. How condescending to blame all her worry on past trauma. Jade was in danger, she knew it, and Finn was treating Holly like a dramatic child.
“I promise we’ll do our jobs,” he continued, as if that settled matters. “I’ll file that report—I just want you to have reasonable expectations. But my honest advice? Call a friend, get some support, and trust that we’ll do our job.”
A friend? Holly wasn’t sure who she could lean on for help. She wished Shae wasn’t thousands of miles away.
Serena came to mind. Maybe she should put more faith in the psychic’s abilities. Perhaps if she focused hard enough, she could intuit Jade’s whereabouts. But the necklace and her reaction to it—what did all that mean? The best approach would be to ask her directly. What could it hurt?
Just as Holly crested the bluff from the beach, she saw a figure standing on her front step.
Maybe Serena really was psychic because there she was, knocking on Holly’s front door. Holly hurried across the street, greeting Serena with a hug. Her hair was messy, and her long-sleeved T-shirt was slightly wrinkled. It appeared she had just rolled out of bed, but she was carrying a tray with two coffees from the Bean There Café.