Page 73 of If You Go
A chill runs through me at the casual way he sayssoundproof, like it’s a feature, not a warning.
Brenden’s arm is slung over my shoulders, and though it looks like he’s steadying me, it’s really the other way around. He’s still weak, pale under the bruises, his steps uneven. Every wince he tries to hide slices through me. I tighten my grip around his waist, pretending it’s affection when it’s really desperation.
“Why does your dad own a mattress store?” Brenden whispers, his breath hot against my ear. The humor is there, buried under pain.
I almost laugh. “I have no clue. Didn’t even know it existed until tonight.”
He just nods, grimacing with every step. The sound of his labored breathing echoes in my skull like guilt.
“Josh, you good?” Corver calls out from behind us.
Josh doesn’t even look back. He waves him off, half a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Got it.”
When he reaches the back door, he pulls it open and presses the circular button beside the elevator. The old machinerygroans awake with a low chime before the doors creak open. The smell of oil and rust escapes like breath from a tomb.
We pile in–Josh, Gavin, my dad, Brenden, and me. Corver, Natasha, and her men wait behind. The rest, my mom, Hazel, June, Richie, Alisha, and my sister, are still en route. Sam went to collect all of them.
As the elevator rises, the air grows heavier. I can hear the clank of chains somewhere above us. The old gears groan, the light flickers overhead. Brenden leans on me harder now, his forehead brushing the top of my head. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. I can feel the apology in the way he exhales.
When the elevator doors slide open again, the world changes.
The room is sterile, echoing, and wrong. One mattress against the wall, a set of chains bolted into the concrete above it. A single wooden chest sits in the corner–large and deliberate. I’m afraid of what I would find if I opened it. Finally, a metal chair stands in the center of the floor, its arms fitted with restraints.
It isn’t a room. It’s a stage.
I stare for a long moment before realizing I’m holding my breath. My father wasn’t exaggerating–this place was built for pain. The air even feels colder here, like it’s been conditioned to watch and not interfere.
My dad walks around, showing everyone what is up here, even showing Josh and Brenden what’s in the chest, but I ignore it. I don’t want to know.
The elevator groans again, descending. A minute later, it returns with Corver, Natasha, and Alec. Their footsteps echo hollowly on the floor. Josh has already dumped Gavin into the chair and secured the chains tight around his wrists and ankles. When he’s done, he slaps him across the face hard enough to echo, then spits on him.
A bloody bead rolls down Gavin’s chin, and something inside me almost–almost–feels pity. Then I remember Bridget. The gas. The years.
“Hey,” I say quietly, voice cutting through the tension. “Give Natasha and me a moment.”
They hesitate. My father’s gaze lingers on me a second longer than I can stand, but he nods. One by one, the others step back, gathering near the far wall. Corver catches Brenden before he can stumble, guiding him down to the floor. Brenden tries to protest, but Corver hushes him, looking over the head wounds he received.
Natasha walks to my side. Her face is pale, but her eyes burn with something sharp and dangerous. I take her hand, cold and strong in mine, and we step toward Gavin.
He’s slumped forward, eyes closed. The bastard still manages to look smug even unconscious.
“So,” I say softly, almost conversational, “did you ever think this is how your night would end, Gavin?” My tone light and airy.
No response. He just looks at us both up and down, blood dripping onto the floor from his chin like slow applause.
“ANSWER US!” Natasha roars. Her fist snaps forward, cracking against his face. His head jerks sideways, more blood and a tooth hitting the ground at once.
The sound–wet and final–makes my stomach turn.
“Damn, girl,” I mutter under my breath, forcing out a humorless laugh. “Remind me not to piss you off.”
Gavin groans, lifts his head, his lip split, trembling–but he doesn’t speak.
I turn to Natasha. “What do you want to do? How much of this do you want to carry?”
She looks back at me, eyes unreadable, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if she’s seeing him or the ghost of her father sitting in that chair instead.
Natasha goes quiet. “I don’t think I want to be here. You can carry it out. Will you kill him?”
