Chapter 45

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Tears coursed down her cheeks as she held her hands over her ears, desperately trying to block out the sounds of the man’s grunts mingled with Fallon’s soft cries.

Bile rose in her throat, and her stomach heaved, threatening to expel the contents of her stomach. She tamped down the urge, swallowing hard and turning her mind toward something—anything—else. Another shiver racked her body, and she imagined herself far away from here, where the sun warmed her skin.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the sounds just a few feet away subsided. Brynlee kept her head down, eyes closed. She couldn’t bear to look. Not yet.

The soft scuffle of movement filled the air, the ancient springs of the mattress creaking as the man lifted himself away, then stood. She heard the soft purr of a zipper, and her stomach flipped once more. She had to get out of here. She had to save herself and Fallon before it was too late.

Suddenly, a low buzzing noise broke the quiet stillness of the basement. Brynlee peeked up at the man who paused, a frown creasing his brow as he pulled the phone from his pocket. Brynlee watched him, her heart hammering against her ribs, every nerve on edge.

The screen lit up, casting a bluish glow over his face, and surprise flickered across his features before it settled into something more guarded.

“Looks like we have visitors," he murmured quietly, almost to himself. His gaze drifted to Fallon, who was curled in a ball on the mattress, then over to Brynlee. For a moment, he seemed to be weighing his options, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Her stomach churned, a mixture of dread and hope washing over her. Who was here? Were they here to help? Did they suspect she was down here? She tried to keep her breathing steady, but the tightness in her chest made it difficult.

Without another word, Mr. Johnson moved swiftly, walking toward the large metal storage unit and grabbing an object from the rusty surface. As he drew closer, Brynlee saw that a strip of fabric dangled from his fingers. Before she could react, he shoved it into her mouth, the rough material scratching against her tongue as he gagged her. She tried to pull away, but the restraints held her fast, and she could only manage a muffled whimper as he secured the gag tightly around the back of her head.

“Not a sound,” he whispered, his voice low and menacing. He moved to Fallon next, repeating the same action, gagging her with a practiced efficiency that sent a chill through Brynlee.

Mr. Johnson stepped back, surveying his work with a critical eye. Satisfied, he glanced at the stairs, his posture tense. “If either of you makes a noise,” he warned, his tone deadly serious, “I’ll kill you.”

Brynlee’s breath hitched, panic clawing at her insides. He didn’t linger, didn’t give her time to process his threat. He was already moving toward the stairs, his footsteps eerily quiet on the concrete floor. He climbed the steps quickly, then was gone, the basement door creaking shut behind him.

The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed in Brynlee’s ears, sealing their fate. But as the silence settled in once more, Brynlee’s fear was slowly replaced by a burning determination. She wouldn’t let him win. They had to get out of here. And somehow, she would find a way.

She began to thrash against the restraints, her body writhing as she tried to free herself. The leather cuffs bit into her skin, but she didn’t care, her desperation giving her strength she didn’t know she had. The gag muffled her screams, but she screamed anyway, a raw, frantic sound that tore from her throat as she struggled.

She kicked out with her legs, her movements wild and uncontrolled, and her foot collided with something solid. The bucket by the side of the mattress tipped over, clattering loudly as it hit the floor. Brynlee’s heart leaped in her chest, hope flaring to life. Someone upstairs had to have heard that. They had to.

She stilled, her breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps behind the gag, and strained to listen. The silence was deafening, pressing in on her from all sides. She waited, every muscle tensed, hoping—praying—that there would be some response, some sign that whoever was upstairs had heard the noise.

But there was nothing. Just the oppressive silence and the faint hum of the house settling above her. No footsteps, no voices, no indication that anyone had noticed.

Despair crashed over her, dousing the fragile spark of hope she’d felt. She was still trapped, still helpless, and no one was coming to save her. Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit down hard on the gag, trying to hold back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn’t afford to lose control, not now. She had to think, had to find another way.

Brynlee’s mind raced, grasping for some plan, some way to signal for help, but the restraints held her in place, unyielding. She was running out of time, and the clock was ticking down with each passing second.

But then, in the distance, she heard something—faint, almost imperceptible. Footsteps? A muffled voice? Brynlee’s breath hitched, and she strained to hear more, her ears pricked for any sign that someone was coming.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed in her ears. Was it Mr. Johnson? Or had someone else come?

Her body trembled, every muscle quivering with tension, as she waited, poised on the edge of hope and despair. She had one chance. If someone was upstairs, if they could hear her, she had to make them realize something was wrong.

She began to kick again, her movements more calculated this time. She aimed for the bucket, trying to knock it against the wall, anything to make more noise. But her legs were tiring, the fight draining out of her with each failed attempt.

The basement door suddenly creaked open, and Brynlee froze, her blood turning to ice. Had they heard her? Or was it Mr. Johnson, returning to finish what he’d started?

She waited, her heart in her throat, as the footsteps descended the stairs. Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, her eyes wide with terror as she braced herself for what was coming. Would it be salvation, or another nightmare?

She was about to find out.