Chapter 5 - THE TICKING CLOCKJulian stood up, wiping his hand on his pants in disgust, and motioned to Marcus.
"Let's move the kid downstairs to the pantry," Julian muttered, his voice cold and clinical. "We’ll leave the stove burners open in the kitchen. By the time the police arrive, the pilot light will spark, and the whole house will go up in a nice, clean explosion. Gas leak. Tragic, accidental, and completely untraceable."
My blood turned to liquid nitrogen. An explosion. They weren't just going to stage a robbery; they were going to incinerate the entire house—and every piece of evidence with it.
"No!" I screamed, straining against the ropes with every ounce of strength in my body, the hemp biting deep into my skin until blood seeped through. "Leave her out of this! Take me! Do whatever you want to me, but let Lily go!"
Marcus walked over, grabbing Lily’s chair by the backrest and lifting her off the floor despite her muffled screams and frantic kicking.
"Shut up, Elena," Marcus said without a shred of emotion. "You brought this on yourselves. If you hadn't hidden those backup drives in the attic, we wouldn't have to go to such extremes."
The attic.
My breath hitched. They didn't know I had hidden the encrypted flash drives containing every single recorded phone call, bank transfer, and text message between Derek and his co-conspirators inside the lining of my old winter coat hanging in the hallway closet.
As Marcus carried Lily out of the bedroom, Julian lingered behind for a second, pulling a small silver pocket knife from his coat. He leaned in close to my ear, his voice dropping to a demonic whisper.
"Don't bother trying to untie yourself, sweetie. The rope is double-knotted with marine-grade nylon. You've got about fifteen minutes before the gas fills the lower level. Say your prayers."
The door clicked shut behind Julian. The heavy deadbolt slid into place from the outside.
Silence descended upon the master bedroom—a heavy, suffocating silence broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the dresser.
Tick. Tack. Tick. Tack.
Ten minutes left.
I threw all my body weight backward, slamming my spine against the sharp edge of the brass radiator cover. The metal scraped agonizingly against my wrists. Hurt. Burn. Frays. I ignored the skin tearing away from my flesh, ignoring the warm trickle of blood running down my forearms.
Once. Twice. Three times.
On the fourth slam, I felt a sudden snap. The rope loosened just enough for me to yank my right hand free, skin slicked with my own blood.
May you like
I didn't waste a second. I tore the remaining ropes off my left wrist, ripped the tape off my ankles, and stumbled forward onto the hardwood floor, gasping for air. My legs buckled under me, but I forced myself up, grabbing the heavy brass lamp off the nightstand.
I threw open the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway, just as the unmistakable, heavy smell of raw natural gas began to drift up from the kitchen below.
