Billionaire Ghost Tour - Stephanie Fowers Page 0,41

doing a lot of that. She guessed Vin had done more damage with his fists than she’d thought. Janson laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, steadying himself. “This door locks?” She nodded. He sagged in relief. “Okay, let’s get Dwayne in here.”

Her eyes shot to him. He wanted to lock Dwayne inside, but what would make that chicken go into the catacombs in the first place? “How?” she whispered.

Janson leaned closer, his breaths hard against her ear. “Work your magic, Mollie. Scare Dwayne like he’s never been scared before.”

Right. Yeah. She could do that. Her stomach cramped with panic before she slapped her fear back where it belonged. Once she’d scared Charly and her twin sister Rio so badly that they’d refused to go anywhere alone with her for months. This feels a little different. She poked her head out of the barred door outside the catacombs and peered through the slits of the black curtains arranged around the room. Dwayne was slouched over a chair near the door entombed into the bookshelf’s “secret entrance.” She drew back, feeling Janson’s free hand gripping the back of her dress to keep her from tripping off the ledge to the tiled floor and giving them away.

Her eyes ran over Janson’s sling. She’d have to do this on her own. “Stay here,” she whispered. He shook his head. She melted a little at his protectiveness—who was this man? Now wasn’t the time to play Prince Charming. He was hurt, and the two of them wouldn’t fit in the tunnel at the speeds she planned on going. “Stay,” she mouthed. She pointed through the crack in the curtain where Dwayne guarded the other door. She pantomimed Janson locking it, but she’d have to warn him that the door had a loud lock on it that was tricky to get closed. He’d have to wait for the right time.

She pressed her fingers against his chest, feeling the muscles contract as he breathed in. He still wasn’t close enough for whispering and so she reached up, her hand sliding over the back of his neck. His eyes darkened tumultuously into hers, and for a breathless moment she wondered if he’d sneak another kiss. He lowered his head next to hers, instead, and she bent over his ear. “Lock that other door after you hear the trap go off,” she told him. “He’ll be far enough away so he can’t stop you. It’s a tough lock.” Leaning his head back to study her with a reluctant, tortured expression, he let her go with a nod.

Channeling her inner “surefooted and mischievous fairy,” she sidestepped the trap, swung her hips to scrape past the mirror, and retraced her path through the tunnel to return to where Dwayne stood guard on the other side of the room. He was as pathetic as an abused dog begging for a kind word from his master. Yeah, mean thoughts gave her the confidence to go up against him—her shoulders sagged—she actually needed something more. She leaned her head against the wood. Please God, help us get out of this alive.

At first she felt nothing as her answer, and still she waited, her blood charging through her veins, as she hoped for something that would help her with what she had to do. Fear flooded her heart with so much force that she felt like she’d drown. This could be how she died, and still, her life was worth fighting for. Janson’s, too. They both had bright futures ahead of them, maybe together, whether as battle-worn friends, or survivors with shared trauma, or—she bit her lip in a flood of confusion—something else.

Mollie, you’re strong. Fight.

Warmth flowed through her as she felt the answer more than she heard it. These thoughts never came from her, yet felt so familiar and welcome that she always recognized exactly where they came from.

She’d do this. Hope spread through her anxieties like oil as she lifted her head. Thank you, God. Yes, she’d make her silly plan work, and go down fighting if that’s what it took. Taking a deep breath, she scratched at the door, doing her best to play into Dwayne’s worst fears. “Help,” she whispered. “Help... they’ve taken us.”

Wood scraped against the floor and Dwayne slammed his fist into the door. “Stop it! No one can hear you in there. Save your breath.”

“Help,” she repeated with the same otherworldly monotone. She had no idea where she was going with this—the “poor victims” she tried to