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Giving up on the door, I spin around and survey the room. It’s an exact replica of the previous room I was in, just flip-flopped. Plush sheets adorn the four-poster bed, and to the left of the bedroom is a door that leads to a bathroom.
Squaring my shoulders, I rush to the picture window overlooking the bed. Relief pours through me as I’m able to open it, cold air slapping me in the face.
I look down to see that I’m at least on the second floor. Escaping from here wouldn’t be as easy as it was at the Carter house. I can’t jump without seriously hurting myself.
What to do?
My eyes land on the blankets on the bed, and an idea comes to me. If I knot enough sheets, towels, and blankets together, I should be able to make a makeshift rope long enough to climb down.
I dart around the bedroom, gathering up any cloth I can find—the sheets off the bed, fluffy towels from the bathroom, and an extra blanket located in the bottom drawer of the dresser.
My heart pounds in my ears as I weave the materials into a makeshift rope, glancing over my shoulder at the locked door. Nat had said she would be back with food, but she didn’t say when.
I’m going to have to work quickly.
I lay two sheets down—marveling at how soft they are—and tie the corners together in a tight knot. I repeat this process with each set of corners, my makeshift rope growing longer and longer.
As I work, my mind can’t help but stray to Damian.
He frightens me, but I’m also strangely attracted to him. I don’t understand how I can be, considering he just took me captive.
But he did save me from the person with a gun. He could have just left me in the streets for Mark or the Carters to find. But he didn’t. Even if his intentions weren’t great, he still brought me to safety.
At least here, I don’t have to worry about being sold like cattle. At least I don’t think I have to.
I pause my weaving, shivering, although I’m not sure if it’s from the cold air coming through the open window.
I can’t believe I’m actually considering this place—Damian’s home—to be safe. For all I know, he could have some dungeon that he plans to lock me into. Or he could have me killed.
But anything would be better than staying with the Carters and being sold to The Brotherhood. I shiver again, feeling nausea rise up in me. It’s always been evident that the Carters never truly liked me and they always treated me like a second-class citizen. I was the outsider looking in. My clothes were hand-me-downs from Emma, and Emma always got the bigger portions of food, the better toys. Emma received the fancy vacations while I stayed home. The only time the Carters ever treated me well was when they knew my social worker would be coming for her quarterly visit.
Suzanne always made it crystal clear through her cold indifference and neglectful behavior that I was a burden she resented, and Dennis was too cowed and apathetic to intervene or even show me an ounce of warmth or kindness. So, why do they hate me so much? If they never wanted a second child, why did they rescue me from my would-be kidnappers? And what have I ever done to Emma? Is it because she viewed me as an intruder, a threat to her parents’ love and attention?
And through it all, I have done nothing wrong to provoke their dislike that I can comprehend. I busted my ass with chores, got good grades in school, and stayed out of trouble. I was always polite and helpful, hoping against hope that if I just tried hard enough, worked hard enough, proved my worth—maybe then, the Carters would finally accept me. Maybe then, I could have the family I so desperately craved.
Tears burn my eyes. What is so fundamentally wrong or unlovable about me? Why did the Carters hate me so viscerally when I had done everything to be the perfect, grateful foster daughter? Why would they betray me in the worst way possible by trying to sell me to the highest bidder?
I don’t understand. Maybe I never will.
It’s times like these when I miss my mom so much it feels like a physical ache in my chest. Although I can barely remember what she looked like, I can still remember the way her hands felt as she stroked my hair, the smell of her perfume as I snuggled into her neck, and the warmth of her body as she hugged me.
She loved me unconditionally, and I never felt like a burden or felt alone when with her. When things used to be really bad, I would dream that my mother would knock on the door, ready to take me home to a place where I was safe and wanted.
Sniffling, I stand up, holding my knotted rope in my hands. I can’t focus on the past. Right now, my only hope is that this rope is long enough.
Throwing the rope out the window, I watch as it unfurls into the darkness. To my dismay, the rope dangles about ten feet off the ground. I curse under my breath and rush to the dresser. Rifling through each drawer, I triumphantly pull out another top sheet. I rapidly incorporate the sheet into my improvised rope, weaving the ends through the gaps in the sheet knot.
I stretch the rope taut. It looks precarious, like one good stiff wind will untie the knots, but it’ll have to do. I have to trust that my knots are tight enough.
Footsteps echo down the hall, and I freeze, my heart thundering in my chest. Even if I could hide the rope, the stripped bed, empty bathroom, and open dresser drawers speak to my deceit. I can barely breathe as I hear the footsteps get louder before growing fainter as the person in the hall walks away.
I release my breath, knees trembling as I lean against the mattress. That was too close. I need to get out of here now.
I quickly tie one end of the rope to the solid wooden column closest to the window, securing it as tightly as I can. Giving it a firm tug to test its strength, I move to the window and look down.
Although I’ve never had a fear of heights, the realization of what I’m about to do hits me like a ton of bricks and my vision suddenly gets woozy. With a deep, shuddering breath, I throw the rope out the window and swing a leg over the windowsill.
The door suddenly opens, and Damian walks into the room.
