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Chapter Forty-One

OLIVIA

I don’t think he’s coming back tonight.

Part of me is scared maybe he’ll never come back. Not that I want to see him—the thought of seeing him again makes me physically ill—but I’ve only got left three slices of bread, one apple, and one bottle of water. I’m doing my best to hold off on eating or drinking, but my throat is painfully parched. All I want is to guzzle the entire bottle, but I know that would be stupid.

What if he doesn’t come back for two or three more days? Then what?

If he doesn’t come back soon, I’ll die.

I can’t let that happen.

I’m making some progress with the mound I’m building. It’s hard to tell how big I need to make it, because I can’t actually see where the trap door is aside from that tiny dim slice of light that disappears entirely at night. It’s very hard to tell how high up it is. Also, I am essentially doing this blind. The hole is pitch black—it makes no difference if my eyes are open or closed.

And I’m so weak. All I want to do is lie on the ground and sleep. It would be easy to do. To let starvation and dehydration take me.

Every time I start to give up, I think about my parents. My friends. My bedroom.

But I can’t think about it too hard, or else I’ll start crying.

I’ve been doing all the digging with my fingers, and now they’ve become painful and raw. I can’t see what they look like, because I have no light, but I imagine they’re very red. I imagine pinpoints of blood.

I pat the mound with my palms. It’s not big enough—I can tell that much. It needs to be at least a few inches higher. I scrape at the ground with my fingers and wince. God, my fingers hurt. I don’t know what’s worse—my fingers or my ankle.

If only I had a tool to help me dig.

I’ve got the empty water bottle. That’s better than nothing, but it’s hard to grip. And other than that, the only thing down here even resembling a tool is…

Oh no, I’m not going to do that .

Yes, one of those bones lying in the corner would be ideal for digging. Not as good as a shovel, but much better than a water bottle and light years better than my poor fingers. But I can’t do that.

Can I?

I reach into Phoebe’s corner until my fingers touch the smooth surface of one of her bones. A shudder runs through me. I lean forward a little more until my fingers close around the bone.

It would be so perfect.

But I can’t. It’s bad enough I’m stuck down here. It’s bad enough I’m starving to death. But I won’t do that .

Of course, it might be the only way I’ll ever get out of here. The only way I’ll ever see my family again.

I pick up the bone, feeling the weight in my hand.

I have no choice.

I’m going to get out of here for both of us, Phoebe.

I’m going to let your family know you’re down here. Give them closure. Give you a real burial.

And I’m going to make sure that asshole goes to prison for the rest of his life.