Page 55 of They're Watching You

But I’m a few inches short.

Growling, I pull my arm back through, iron rubbing against tender flesh, and rack my brain for a way to reach the envelope. I’m so close.

I get up and scan my surroundings, noting the torches again. I examine them and find that each stand contains a base and a torch. Neither end would fit through the bars. Except, I realize with a metaphorical facepalm, these standing torches weren’t actually made in the medieval times. They come apart like anything in the Amazon era, meant for shipping. The torch slides right out of the stand, and so does the base.

Leaving me with a post perfect for sticking through the bars.

A few grunts, twists, and yanks later, I’ve removed the torch. I drag the stand, base and all, over to the gate, sliding the narrow end through the bars. When it catches on the envelope, I draw it toward me. Right beneath the gate.

I let the torch stand fall to the ground with a clatter and slump down against the wall. Despite the cold, my palms are sweaty as I open the envelope. What is so important and classified that Annabelle kept it down in this dungeon?

The contents tumble out into my lap. A bunch of photographs. My heart hammers in my chest. If these photos contain Polly or Jane, I can take them straight to the cops. I thrust one into the lantern light, letting my flashlight illuminate the details. Blond hair, a long, lean leg crossing the bottom corner of the frame. Slender fingers tangled up in a head full of dark curls.

Not Polly or Jane. The girl in the photo is Annabelle Westerly.

And she’s kissing Remington Cruz.

Twenty-One

My stomach flips. I drop the flashlight and turn aside to dry heave.

Still hunched and weak, I force myself to look at the other photos. They’re all the same. Annabelle and Remington in compromising positions. My thoughts tumble and collide. I can’t make sense of it. Was he always a part of this? He and Annabelle? Did he do something to Jane? To Polly?

One thought continues to surface, separating from the others: Remington is a liar. While he was kissing me—while he was telling me I could trust him—he was keeping this from me.

Of course Annabelle is trying to pit Remington and me against each other. He means something to her. It’s obvious from these photos. And I have no idea who he really is or what he wants.

Or what he’ll do to me to get it.

I check my phone: 1:18 a.m. The meeting’s been going on for two hours already.

I have to get out of here. I gather my things and turn back the way I came, but I stop. What about Polly and Jane? I cast a look the opposite way, where a corridor leads to the unknown.

I’ll bring the authorities here. Tonight. Before Annabelle even knows what happened.

Nausea suddenly replaced by a spark of adrenaline, I stuff the photos back into the envelope. I slip it inside my backpack before haphazardly reassembling the torch stand to cover any trace of my existence here. Then I rush to tuck the lantern into a corner to make the return trip through the tunnel a little lighter. My flashlight will have to suffice.

I shrug on my pack and head in the direction of the tunnel, crouching to duck into the opening.

When I get a few yards in, a scratching noise makes its way through the hollow space, and my blood freezes. The sound gets closer, claws or teeth against stone. I attempt to turn around, but my pack gets jammed. The space is too small for me to reach back and push it down. I can’t even contort my body enough to remove it.

This is it.

A horde of rats is headed straight for me.

My lantern bathes the stones before me in a yellow glow. But as the noise approaches, a large shadow smothers the light. Despite my efforts to brace myself, I shriek. I punch and kick and whack at the shape with my flashlight.

“Hey, hey!” booms a deep voice as the flashlight is ripped from my grasp. My throat constricts.

Remington.

“Maren? Are you trying to break my arm?”

“Maybe,” I growl, instantly regretting it. I can’t let on that I know about his deception. Especially since he’s currently blocking my escape route. “You did just attack me in a dark tunnel.”

“I didn’t attack you. Ifoundyou, like I said I would. Remember?”

“Well, there’s been a change of plans. So if you could figure out how to turn around and head right back out the way you came, that would be great.”

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