Maybe the dream was an omen, maybe Papa was telling me that I’m going to get out of here.
I go to the bathroom, scratch an eighth mark into the wall. Today is Saturday, the twenty-fourth of August. My heart sinks; we’ve been here for a week. No one is coming for us.
I rinse the spoon I used for my porridge, walk six steps toward the main door, stop, crouch down to place the spoon alongside the other three. But I can’t find them. I shift on my haunches; maybe I’m not as close to the door as I thought. I stretch out my hand, find the doorframe, move my fingers downward to the floor. Nothing. But they have to be there, they always are. I sweep my fingers farther to the right. Nothing. I put my hand flat on the floor and move it around, searching frantically for my spoons. They aren’t there.
Shock rocks me backward onto the floor. The spoons were there yesterday, now they have gone—but when did they go? The man didn’t remove them when he brought my porridge; I’m certain of it. I heard him pick up the tray from last night and go straight out of the room. I would have known if he’d stopped, I would have heard the rattle of plastic as he put the spoons on the tray. But I hadn’t heard anything, which can only mean one thing. He removed them at some other time.
Frightened of what it means, I move unsteadily to my mattress, clutching the spoon to my chest, and sit down. I thought that this room was my room, my universe. But it isn’t. The abductors can come in whenever they want, they can come in while I’m in the bathroom, or during the night, they can remove spoons, watch me while I sleep, listen on the other side of the bathroom door. The knowledge is devastating.
The need to escape presses down on me. I push up from the floor, steady myself against the wall, walk to the window. My fingers find the board, I move my hands across it until I reach the left-hand edge, searching for the gap from the missing nail. I find it, feel for the next nailhead up. I try to grip it between my index finger and thumb, but it’s too firmly nailed in to be pulled out, even with my pajama top padding my fingers. Sliding a fingernail under the nailhead itself, I try to wiggle it. But I can’t pull it out. I try the other nails and by the time I’ve made my way around the whole of the board, I’m panting, and my fingernails are sore and broken. I blow air up my face. I’ll never be able to pry the board off, not without a tool of some kind. Which means that when I escape, it will have to be through the door.
But then what? The hall outside is kept in darkness, I know that because there is never the slightest glimmer of light when the man comes into the room. How will I be able to negotiate an unknown space in the dark? How would I get out of the house? If I turn left in the hallway, I’d be able to find my way to the door that leads to the basement. But what if it’s kept locked? If I were to find it open, and I went down the twelve stone steps and along the corridor to the door we came through eight days ago, it would probably be locked too.
There must be a main door to the house, somewhere on the ground level where I’m being kept, possibly to the right. It will probably be locked but there might be a key nearby, or a window I can break. I would just need to find my way in the dark.
But the whole house can’t be in darkness, just as the door to my room can’t be the only door in the hallway. There must be other doors that lead to rooms with windows that aren’t boarded up, windows that I could open, or break. And once outside, I would run, find help.
I think it through. If I could immobilize the man when he comes with my tray, I could take his night-vision goggles and use them to navigate my way along the hallway. But I have nothing to use as a weapon, only my strength and I know I’m not strong enough to overpower him.
How does it happen when he brings me food? I close my eyes, replay his movements in my head—he unlocks the door, comes in, walks over to where I’m sitting, puts the tray on the floor, picks up the previous tray, goes back to the door, leaves, locks it behind him.
My eyes snap open. I’ve never sensed him pause on his way out, I’ve never sensed him adjusting his grip on the tray so that he can hold it with one hand and open the door with the other. Which means that when he comes into the room, he doesn’t close the door behind him, he leaves it open.
My heart thumps with excitement. If what I think is true, I can get out of the room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PAST
“So, Amelie, what do you think?” Justine asked.
We’d arrived at the party and were standing in the vast entrance hall of the Exclusives offices. I stared up at the atrium ceiling, hung with thousands of tiny lights.