He hauled me up, yanking the rope to lead me upstairs.
I followed, docile as a lamb.
His phone kept ringing—Gideon, Elliot, someone who knew.
They were close, I could feel it.
Upstairs, Martin flicked the hallway switch.
Nothing. He cursed, fumbling with his phone, hanging up on the caller before switching on the flashlight.
I scanned the second floor: a straight hallway, old windows lining both sides.
One pane was shattered; the breeze, the door’s angle—this side faced the bay.
My only shot.
I faked a stumble, lurching toward it.
Martin, assuming I was heading for a room, followed.
From the untying to the climb, I’d been quiet—no moves, no fights, even when he was glued to his phone.
She’ll grovel to live, he thought, smirking.
But as he pushed open a room door, I slipped the
