I can see it there.
Rumble.
Wait…did I…was that all some weird dream?
What the fuck is going on?
My heart thunders away in my chest. The fuck am I going to get out of this if I don’t know what’s real and what’s not?
I close my hand into a fist. Stronger than I thought…why?
It was a dream.
Or something close to it.
Maybe a warning.
From the other side.
My lips curl into a sardonic smile.
Thanks, Mom.
I muster what little strength I have and fall over onto my side. Now the Porsche’s ignition is just a foot away. I manage to grab onto the key the second time around. The car dies.
There’s less gas down here.
Guess I haven’t been in here very long. Probably took Dad some time to put this all together.
Just let it happen, Jo.
Go to sleep, never wake up.
And I probably would have. But there’s more at stake than my mind, my ego, my consciousness.
Candy.
If she’s still alive, then I need to save her.
If she’s dead, then I need to avenge her.
And the only way either of that’s happening, is with me getting the fuck out of this catch twenty-two.
Two.
Two cars.
One dead now—
like you’ll be soon
—and the other still idling. Can’t open the window. Can’t open the door.
My thoughts are moving faster now.
Fresher air, better brain.
Prickles—the real shit, not imaginary—make my fingers and toes twitch. He left me the way I was—wearing boxers and nothing else. Is that important? What does it mean?
Hell no. Can’t waste brainpower on trying to figure that shit out.
Brainpower.
Need more of it.
I push back with my hips and maneuver myself forward a little. Now I lean my head into the footwell beneath the steering wheel. Here the air’s even fresher.
He tried to kill me off faster, but instead, he’s sealed me inside this car. A brief respite while I try and figure shit out. There’s still a crack in the window above my head—gas is seeping in through there. And a car isn’t airtight—it’ll be slipping in through all sorts of places.
Air con.
No, too risky.
Then my eyes lift back the pair of keys dangling above my head.
I guess he was in a hurry to get back to Candy. He didn’t think this through. Maybe he thought the second car would be enough.
Or maybe he’s on his way back right now. Done with her. Almost done with me. Just to make sure that I’m well and truly dead.
Every car has a key fob to operate the garage.
This car’s one is still attached to the keyring.
I haul in a huge breath—please, God, let it help and not hinder—and grab hold of the keys. They jangle like fucking Christmas bells. My fingers slip off a second before I can press the button.
Again.
Jangle.
My hand thumps into the footwell.
Jangle.
There’s a click and a loud rumble as the garage doors both start to open. I expect light to come in from outside, but there’s just more darkness out there.
How long have I been out?
There’s less than a yard between my car door and the fresh air. I could wait in here until the garage is filled with fresh air, but—
You’ve already been in here too long.
I have to be quiet. There’s a possibility Dad didn’t hear the garage doors opening. Slim, but possible.
If I can get out of here without him hearing, I could get to him without him knowing.
I don’t think about it any longer. There’s no time.
I fill my lungs with air. Then I fumble around above me until I find the door handle.
Hot, poisonous air billows over me when I push open the driver’s side door. I try to ignore it. I try to keep my fresh air inside my lungs.
They’re already complaining—hot and prickly and leaden—but I ignore that sensation as I scramble out of the seat. My knees hit the concrete floor so hard that I lose precious air in an ‘oomph’ that’s part pain, part surprise.
Then I drop to my belly and crawl as fast as I can. Only when the air caressing my face turns chilly, do I hazard a quick, shallow breath.
Fresh air.
I did it.
I scoot forward, and push up onto my knees as soon as my hands touch gravel. I’m still too weak to do more than crawl, but at least I’m breathing in regular O2 now.
Something catches my eye.
I lift my head, pausing as I pant in the cool night air.
Far above, a pair of windows bob and weave as I struggle to focus on them.
The study.
He’s in the fucking study.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Candy
The room dips and