Page 85 of Their Cruel Love

“And if I safeword that?” She’s jabbing a finger at the cuff.

“Doesn’t work on this.”

We close the door on her muffled grumbling and move quietly through the resort then out the rear door. We pick up the heavy rope and the metal bar I found earlier that I hope is enough to break that lock.

Onward, upward, silent as possible.

We’re halfway up the hill to the ruins when Razor makes an observation I’ve already turned over, since a day ago.

“They have all that staff and yet we see nothing of them while doing this.” He waves a hand about. “We are the ones they are trying to mess with and confuse?—”

“Mostly Phoebe though. I figure they have a grudge against her stepmother.”

“So do a lot of people. So why are we left to do as we wish to?”

“Let’s see. Stupidity? Neglect? Or they are watching and maybe videoing this, even? Or they don’t care since we cannot escape. Choose one or two of those.”

“Yeah. That is what I was afraid of.”

“Let’s pick up the pace.” I start to jog. The theorizing as to why changes nothing.

Ten minutes later, we reach the ruins. It takes little time to arrange the pre-knotted rope and for Razor to decide he can do this. I’ve anchored the rope end around a small tree and myself.

It should be enough, I tell myself as he crawls backward to lower himself.

“Wait!” I chew through my thought. Is now a good time for this? What if he finds dismembered bodies in that room. I need to tell him. “In the freezer, the eyeballs were sweets but next to them, I found a tray of severed fingers. Real fingers.” Souvenirs of the dead, I assume. He can figure that out.

Razor gifts me with a seriously disbelieving stare but that gradually morphs. His face shifts into acceptance, and he nods curtly. “Got it. I’m assuming that’s a warning.”

“Yes. I didn’t want there to be surprises or, you know?” Even I don’t know. Anything could be in this room.

“Thanks, I think.” Then, hand over hand, he descends. As his weight drags at me, I feed out the rope. My muscles are straining to lessen the slide and a yard, two, slip past my gloved hands before I hear a muted yell.

“Made it!”

With the rope safely fastened to the tree, I crawl to the edge and listen. Already I hear metalthunksand a few high-pitched chiming sounds, as if the bar is used to bash the lock.

“Any luck?”

“Wait. Wait.” Three more metal-on-metal sounds come to my ears, and he lets out a whoop. “It’s done. The lock has disengaged from the door. I can swing it inward.”

“And?”

Silence. I can hear him moving about then the thickness of soil and rock between us removes all telltale noises of him doing whatever he is doing. I lie down on my back and count the stars overhead, waiting, waiting, for a sign all is well.

Or a sign he has discovered a gateway to Hell.

I switch on the phone, hoping to see bars. Nothing.

How long is this taking? The moon is barely showing asliver, and going back down the path will take some care, but with the rope climbing back up from the ledge should be doable. Insects are buzzing about. Thankfully, they aren’t biting.

Ten minutes must have passed. What is Razor doing? I squint at the phone screen and it shows a signal. I had a text waiting and punch send. Before I can punch in and send another message or do anything else, it’s gone again.

But a message notification sounds.

We are coming in force. Delay them. Delay. Delay.

There must be a drone up, relaying the signal, just like they said they’d do. What the fuck doesin forcemean though? Delay? For how long? Am I supposed to believe in some imaginary rescue? I’ve got nothing here, am half a million in debt, and everything is going to shit faster than someone going over Niagara Falls in a fruit basket.

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