Page 52 of The Prodigal

Finding my phone, I press the button to turn on the flashlight and edge my way to the door, finding it locked with the chain latched on the inside.

Remington had to have locked it.

Frantically, I swipe my phone through the air, using the light to illuminate parts of the small room. The chair isn’t inside, but Remington’s bag is.

And it’s open…

“Remington?”

That same eerie noise that woke me earlier happens again. I whip around.

Where is it coming from?

Better yet, where is Remington?

“Please, don’t.”

The words stop me cold.

That’s no animal. That’s a plea from a man that would leave me on the side of the road just for blinking wrong.

Remington.

I clutch my heart as his voice drifts through the humid room again. “I promise I’ll be good now.”

Oh, God. No. I remember dreams like that.

Shining the light in the direction of Remington’s tortured voice, I come up empty.

Where the hell is he? This room is literally the size of the lobby at Midnight Gardens.

The bathroom! It wouldn’t be the first time someone slept in the tub, though I consider it a last resort. Unless it’s a newer plastic tub, the basin is too cold—even with a ton of blankets. Remington might want me to think his blood runs cold, but he’s no match for this 1960s porcelain bathtub.

Switching on the light, I pull back the curtain and find nothing but a tub in need of an update.

Please tell me Remington isn’t a vampire or something nesting in the rafters of this old building. I’ll do a lot of things, but climbing in asbestos-coated ceilings with vermin isn’t one of them.

“Remington,” I hiss. “Where the fuck are you?”

If anything will rouse him, it’ll be my usage of the four-letter f-word.

But it doesn’t. Instead, he calls out with that same tortured plea again. “Please, please don’t.”

My entire body seizes at hearing him beg off some invisible monster.

Please, Lord, let me find him. I can’t stand to hear him suffering.

Raking a hand through my hair, I give the room another once-over. The bed is too low for him to lie under, and he’s not on the floor or the bed.

But then I see it—slatted doors.

The closet.

He’s in thecloset.

Padding over, my heart absolutely shatters as I inch the door open and find my hateful hero curled up on his side, sleeping on…the extra sheets.

Oh, God.

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