Page 63 of They're Watching You

“You said there was no key.”

“On the off chance that there is a key and Annabelle lets us waltz out of this place, one of us should be looking.”

I get down onto the cold stone to search under the bed, which is filled with dust and cobwebs. I move onto my knees, wiggling my nose to stifle a sneeze. There isn’t anything down here but crumbs.

After checking every rusted and rotted inch of the bed, my stomach grumbles. I dig the two granola bars Remington forced upon me from my backpack. I open one, nibbling at it before pushing the other at him. He accepts it without looking, his eyes trained on the gate. “What is it?”

“I’ve been focused on the lock.” Absentmindedly, he unwraps the bar and takes a bite.

“Yeah…”

Remington blinks suddenly, flicking his head to the corner of the room. Confused, I follow. When he spins me so that my back is pressed against the wall, panic tornados through my head. He whips out the pocketknife, and I squirm in his grasp. “What are you—”

“Shh,” he says, leaning to whisper into my ear. “I couldn’t tell you before. Don’t look, but there’s a camera beneath the stool. It doesn’t have much of a view, but it’s listening.”

My heart pounds. The lines fromKing Learecho back. The fresco of the eyes. The Gamemaster is always watching. Plotting.

She’s playing with us.

Twenty-Four

“This is what Annabelle meant by the Games being the society’s biggest source of entertainment,” I hiss. “They’re watching us.”

“Yep.”

“We’re screwed.”

“No, we’re not. The gate hinges are. Screwed on, I mean.”

I inhale a morsel of granola, choking. Remington pulls me from the wall to knock me on the back.

I cough and flick my chin toward Remington’s hand around the knife. “I’m hoping what you’re trying to tell me,” I whisper, “is that your knife contains a screwdriver.”

He’s close enough that I feel him nod. “You reposition the stool to take away the camera’s view of the gate. All conversation from here on out will have to be about searching for the key or…”

“How much we hate each other.”

“How much wedespiseeach other.” His fingers trail over the back of my neck beneath my ponytail. “We’re going to get out of here.”

He steps to the side, and I wander in front of the camera, pretending to search the room. “There’s some sort of shelf up here.” I point before dragging the stool over to the wall, aiming the camera at a blank stone backdrop. Then I stand on it for good measure, watching Remington work away. Torch stowed inside a wall mount above him, he removes a screw, tucking it inside his pocket and moving on to the next one. “Nothing up here,” I say, dropping down to the ground. “Why are you just sitting there, Remington? You’re completely useless.”

Remington’s focus halts as he slings me a look of feigned irritation. “I’m thinking. Which is impossible to do in here with your constant prattle.”

“Did you sayprattle? No wonder you’re so slow. You’re a few hundred years old. Go ahead, keep thinking. Polly and Jane are really going to appreciate all those thoughts when they’re dead.”

“Maybe they won’t have to die if we just use you for the sacrifice.”

At this, I whack my shin against the iron bed frame, releasing a noise somewhere between a cry and a delirious laugh. In an attempt to cover it, I cough, which is timely, since Remington has removed the entire first hinge. The gate groans, and I fake a full-on coughing attack to cover the sound. “It’s so dusty in here.”

Remington proceeds to the top hinge, and I settle onto the bed. “Don’t bother getting up to help a choking girl,” I groan. “Keep searching for your damned key.”

“That is the game, isn’t it?” The first screw is out.

“Gavin was right about you.” The words sizzle with a heat I tell myself is good acting. Remington’s hand pauses momentarily, but he returns to tediously twisting the knife. A thread of guilt knots in my stomach—and I don’t even know if it’s for Remington or for Gavin, who’s locked up and injured for trying to help me. Gavin, who earlier tonight sent a flood of convoluted emotions through me.

Atingechoes in the room as the final screw falls to the ground. The gate clanks as one side sinks. Remington moves to catch it, and I rush to help. Together, we lift and pull to keep the iron from grating over the stone. But it’s too heavy.

It screeches like a beast in the night. We’ve created just enough space to escape, though. Remington turns to grab the torch, and I sling my backpack on, cursing myself for giving Gavin the flashlight as I grasp the lantern handle.

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