Page 69 of The House That Held Her

With my feet scrambling for traction along the tunnel’s slick bottom, I twist around until I make contact with her again. My fingers glide over her waist, then down to her arms—and there it is, cold, unyielding metal. She’s handcuffed to something. Probably the grate. My heart’s in free fall, but there’s no time to question it. The only hope we have is to get her free.

I tip my head up, trying to inhale, but I take in more water than air. I cough, vomiting the briny liquid. I try once more with my lips pressed tight, managing only a shallow, pitiful breath. It’ll have to be enough. I plunge below the surface, hands searching in the blackness until I find her cuffed wrist. Eyes squeezed shut, I position my palm against the back of her hand, line the other beneath her joint for leverage, and press down with all the strength I have left.

A sickening crack reverberates through the water, and for a split second, I pray Shannon will scream, because that means she’s alive. But there’s only silence. Terror knives through me. I maneuver the newly broken joint, forcing the cuff to slide up and over her hand.

I shoot back up, slamming against the tunnel ceiling. Once more I try to inhale, water stinging my throat, hacking and spitting. I’ve run out of time. No more illusions—this is it. I clamp Shannon to my side, kick off that cursed grate again, and feel us surge forward in the current. My single free arm claws at the water, but the storm’s runoff pushes us back. I’m exhausted, and we’re sinking.

My momentum ebbs. I bounce off the tunnel floor and realize I have no last-ditch burst of adrenaline left. No help is coming. The pipes are designed to keep debris out of the lake. Well, here we are, pinned into the grate just like debris. In the heavy darkness, a hollow resignation settles in me. Before I can stop myself, I check Shannon’s pulse. My fingertips graze the side of her neck. To my disbelief, there’s the faintest flutter. She’s alive.

A sick laugh bubbles in my chest, barely contained. The universe is mocking me. We came so close, and now there’s nowhere else to go. At least I tried. At least I wasn’t a coward this time.

Then, in that haze of complete hopelessness, something changes. Or rather, something rests. The roar of rain overhead softens, replaced by a damp hush that resonates through the grates. My mind latches onto that sudden silence. The rain—it’s finally stopped.

59

The roar of the water dulls to a trickle, and with the onslaught of rain finally halted, the main run-off tunnel recedes by at least a couple of inches in what feels like mere seconds. One moment I’m pinned against the ceiling, convinced we’re both dead and the next I’m able to lift my head and suck in a full breath. Mount Dora’s drainage system may be old as sin—dating back to the late 1880s—but it’s incredibly effective. I nearly weep with relief as the current slackens around me.

I holler at Shannon to hold on, though she’s unconscious and can’t hear a word. I hoist her to my side, hooking my arm beneath her armpits and kicking with every bit of strength I have left. Water sluices around me, still waist-deep in places, but at least I’m not drowning. Each kick sends fire through my calf muscles, but the knowledge that this might just be enough to save us drives me forward.

Keeping my eyes peeled for that stairwell I found once before, I nearly overshoot it—the water is much higher, distorting the shape of everything around me. But I spot the dark maw off to the right and push off the tunnel floor, lifting Shannon entirely over my shoulder as I stagger up the slick, narrow steps. My teeth clack from the strain, but I don’t slow until we reach a flat, muddy patch of ground.

With shaking arms, I lower Shannon onto the slope. Her body is limp, and every second that passes stabs deeper into my chest. I clear her airway, pressing my mouth to hers and forcing precious air into her lungs. My own lungs feel shredded from near-drowning, but I keep going. I can barely speak now—my throat is ragged, my voice a desperate rasp—so I focus on the rhythmic compressions, praying with every push.

Just as my vision starts to blur from exhaustion, Shannon coughs, a splatter of dark water dribbling from her mouth. Her entire frame jolts as she turns onto her side, retching up the remains of the flood. Relief smacks me so hard I almost collapse against the stone wall. I lean over, patting her back in the most urgent, gentle way I can, my voice little more than a whisper at her ear.

“Breathe, Shannon,” I croak, my own lungs rattling. “Just breathe.”

She’s alive—but the moment I start to believe we’ve caught a break, she mumbles, barely audible: “Margot.” My heart stutters, and a new rush of panic shoots through me. If Shannon was cuffed down there, that means someone left her to die. God knows what that someone might’ve done to Margot.

I want details, want to shake Shannon until she can give me a full sentence, but she’s still half-conscious, blinking in confusion. Then I hear a deep, resonant thud echo somewhere farther down the tunnel. I turn and see faint pinpricks of light flickering—someone’s crossing in front of them from the other side of the wall.

I scramble upright, ripping Patrick’s phone from my pocket. It still glows when I snap it open—a small, blessed miracle all thanks to the Motorola brick. With trembling fingers, I wipe the screen on my sopping shirt. I punch in 911 and press the phone to my ear. After the first ring, I drop it into Shannon’s lap. “Stay here,” I tell her, or I try to—it comes out as more of a wheeze. Then, because there’s no time and my heart is thundering, I spin headlong into the darkness.

60

Isprint through the darkness, slamming into cinderblock walls more than once in my haste, trying to get my bearings. My vision wavers, my lungs still ragged from the ordeal in the tunnel. I’m convinced this passage led into Hawthorn Manor via the old run-off tunnel I took. My thoughts momentarily flash back to the dirty basement, hoping by now the police have arrived to discover Patrick’s body, to search for Margot…to search for me.

Muffled voices seep through the stone around me. I try to yell, but all that comes out is a raspy whisper. Whatever life was in my vocal cords is gone; after near-drowning and screaming through the tunnels, my throat is done.

The tunnel keeps snaking around in wild, erratic turns. I glimpse small holes in the walls and think I see glimpses of furniture and floorboards, but the house lights must be off, making it impossible to orient myself. I just keep going, guided by the subtle changes in air pressure and the scattered patches of moonlight that occasionally slip through cracks.

Then more steps appear. Some rise only a step or two; others climb five or six. A couple slope downward, disorienting me further. Eventually, I have no idea where I am—upstairs, downstairs, or somewhere in between. My heart starts to pound again, panic rising like bile.

And then, finally, I see it: bright, brilliant light shining from somewhere ahead, flooding the corridor. Relief hits me like a battering ram, and I break into a run, weaving past an old treasure chest with a rusty, half-open lock, dodging dusty chairs and an old bed, until I burst through the exit.

The rush of clean air nearly knocks me sideways. I double over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath. When I straighten up, the confusion nearly topples me again. I’m in our bedroom. The bed Margot and I once shared stands in the same place, the desk shifted at an angle to reveal the opening I just emerged from. Shock ties my thoughts into knots. Why the hell is there a secret passage here?

Before I can piece it together, I hear the voices again—this time clearly. Margot. She’s alive. Hope and dread fuse in my chest, because there’s a second voice: Walter. My pulse roars in my ears. He’s here, and my wife is in danger.

I don’t know if he’s armed. I don’t know if he’s threatening her with a knife, a gun—anything at all. If I move carelessly, I could lose her in a single heartbeat. She’s yelling now and I track the sounds to somewhere downstairs. Trying to dampen each step, I tug off my soaking boots, gently dropping the first.

I’m halfway through removing the second when I hear it: the crash of a struggle. Someone’s running up the stairs just outside the bedroom door. My heart leaps, and I creep closer, ready to pounce on Walter the moment he appears. My blood sings with adrenaline, images of Patrick’s murder fueling a desire for retribution.

But then the noise dies—replaced by a strained tussle. I inch around the doorway until I can see the top of the staircase. My eyes go wide at the sight. Margot, face pressed against the step, pinned down by Walter. He’s leaning his entire weight onto her, forcing her head toward a broken banister spindle. A sharpened splinter of wood waits to impale her throat if he pushes an inch farther.

My muscles coil, and I fling myself into motion. I slip in the mud my soaked boots have tracked inside, almost go down face-first, but manage to plant a hand and vault forward. Margot’s chin is fractions of an inch from that lethal shard, and while I can’t directly see them, I know what Walter’s eyes are like: burning with the same frenzied hatred he wore when he removed Patrick’s head.

I barrel into them, hooking around the banister’s main post on my left. I hurl my body forward, letting gravity carry me. My left palm slams into Walter’s nose, a grisly crunch confirming the cartilage is shattered. In the same instant, I wedge my right hand under Margot’s neck, shielding her throat from the spindle.

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