Beach Thriller(95)

Inside the cabinet drawer, something else caught her eye: an opaque brown prescription bottle with a glass vial inside. Holly assumed it contained medication to help Conrad manage his chronic condition. But to her surprise, the prescription was old, long expired, and in Maeve Carmichael’s name.

Holly read the label: Lypotrel. She wondered how large a dose would be needed for it to be lethal.





Chapter 57

Jade




I’m not ready to leave this crazy world yet, but I might not have a choice. Eventually my body will fill with enough gas to put me to sleep for good. I miss the time when thirst was my biggest concern.

I wonder how it will feel. Will I get dizzy, tired, and then just close my eyes for an endless nap? I think that’s how it goes with this sort of thing, but I’m not certain. I haven’t died before.

Conrad—straight-up psycho …

I already feel a little lightheaded. Spots dance in front of my eyes. There’s an ocean rumbling in my ears, or maybe it’s just the generator humming as it releases death into my cell. My breath comes short and quick. Am I hyperventilating?

My thoughts are scrambled, and my limbs tremble. But somehow I find a way to harness my fear. The hose … that’s my only hope. I need to feed the tube that’s going to kill me back out the window.

I gather my strength and climb up the empty wine rack, my whole body heavy and sore. I reach the highest point and wrap the fabric of my sweatshirt around my right hand. My head is still spinning, but I take a deep breath and jump.

For a moment, I think I might not make it. My legs don’t have much strength, but I stretch my arm just enough—and oh my god, I’ve got it. I’m hanging on with one hand, swinging pendulum-like against the wall. Luckily, the sweatshirt protects my skin from the rusted metal that flakes off the grate.

With a desperate grunt, I swing my other arm up, grasping some of the dangling fabric of my hoodie so I can hold on with both hands. My fingers are close enough to touch the tube but not much else. I don’t have enough leverage to push it back through the window.

The roar of the generator’s powerful motor vibrates the metal, threatening my grip. Up here, the air tastes sour, tinged with gasoline. It burns my throat and causes tears to come to my eyes. But there’s also another taste—freedom. I feel a slight breeze on my face, and a faint whiff of fresh-cut grass cuts through the gasoline smell. I’m inhaling both salvation and death at the same time.

I call out hoping someone will hear me, but with the music and the generator, I can barely hear myself. I’m not getting out of this that easily.

My one-hundred-pound frame has never felt so heavy. I’m hanging uselessly, pain in my hands and arms, tendons beginning to strain beyond their limits. It’s no use. I feel my grip slipping.

But I have a sudden flash of inspiration. I can’t push the tube out, but maybe I can stuff something in, like my hoodie—plug the opening and slow the gas that’s filling this small space. It won’t save me, but it’ll buy me some time.

With my last shred of energy, I press my feet against the stone, which helps me to hold the grate with one hand, and with the other, I start feeding the fabric between the bars of the barrier and into the tube.

I’m at the point of complete muscle fatigue, but I steadily push more fabric through the opening until I’ve blocked it as much as possible. Still, it’s not entirely sealed; there are gaps, and the sleeve of my hoodie hangs like a limp flag.

I can’t make it perfect, but I can’t hold on any longer. I have to do it—I have to let go.

I tumble to the floor, landing hard and shielding my head with my hands. I hear a horrible sound—a sickening crack—followed immediately by a jolt of pain that tells me that sound was my wrist breaking.

With a cry of agony, I roll to one side, cradling my useless limp limb with my other arm. The stabbing pain is so intense that I fear I might pass out. But I manage to scoot away from the window, huddling by the door on the other side of the room. I rest my injured arm on my thigh, trying to keep it still and supported. With my functional right hand, I reach for the broken bottle that doubles as my makeshift knife. I sit there, waiting and forcing myself to keep my eyes open.

Someone will come to make sure the job is done, but now it’s going to take longer than expected. And when they arrive, I plan to give them one hell of a surprise.





Chapter 58

The Watcher




All these people make me queasy. It wasn’t my idea to do this at the party, but the girl forced my hand.

I scan the crowd, put on a charming smile, and try to stay in character, but my eyes dart around. I need to ensure everything goes according to plan, and for that, I have to know exactly where all the players in my chess game are positioned.

I can be a loner these days. Trauma does that to a person. You learn to keep people at a distance, letting only a few into your circle, and even then, they don’t really know the true you.

But tonight it’s good to see an old friend, if I can use that term loosely. And it’s perfect timing, as I’m handed exactly what I need to finish this once and for all.

I open the tower door, quiet as a mouse, closing it silently behind me. It’s dark as night in here, but I know every stone in this house. I could descend the staircase into the depths blindfolded. Even so, I move slowly, one careful step at a time. She won’t hear me coming, but there’s a good chance she can’t hear anything at all.