Chapter 2 - The Crawl Through the Storm
The fourth screw fell onto the laundry-room floor with a tiny metallic click.
For several seconds, I simply stared at it.
My hands were bleeding. My left leg had swollen until the skin looked stretched and shiny, and every beat of my heart sent another wave of pain through the broken bone. I was lightheaded, nauseated, and so cold that my teeth had begun to chatter.
But the ventilation grate was loose.
I wrapped both hands around its edges and pulled.
At first, it refused to move.
I bit down on my sleeve to keep from crying out and pulled again with everything I had left. Rust tore away from the frame. The grate came free and struck the floor beside me.
Cold rain blew through the narrow opening.
Freedom was less than twelve inches wide.
I almost laughed.
Even if I could somehow force my shoulders through, my hips would never fit. The opening had been designed for air, not for a grown woman with a shattered leg.
For one terrible moment, despair swallowed me.
I had dragged myself across the kitchen, cut open both palms, and spent nearly an hour removing those screws. Now the opening in front of me was useless.
Then I noticed the deadbolt.
The ventilation grate was positioned beside the lock mechanism. From the inside of the door, Mason had installed a steel security plate so I could not reach the deadbolt without a key.
But from inside the ventilation opening, the edge of the locking arm was exposed.
I shoved the bottle opener through the gap.
The metal slipped.
I tried again.
My fingers shook so badly I could barely hold it.
Behind me, the house remained silent.
Mason and his parents were asleep upstairs. If one of them came down for water, they would find the blood trail immediately.
I forced myself to breathe.
Slowly, I hooked the bottle opener behind the locking arm and pushed upward.
Nothing happened.
I changed the angle and pushed again.
The mechanism moved a fraction of an inch.
A sound escaped my throat—half sob, half laugh.
I kept working.
Each movement required more strength than the last. My arms trembled. My vision darkened around the edges. Twice, I nearly passed out.
Then the deadbolt slid free.
The sound was soft.
To me, it was louder than thunder.
I reached up, twisted the doorknob, and pulled.
The back door opened.
Rain exploded into the laundry room.
Cold water struck my face and soaked my clothes within seconds. The backyard beyond the threshold was dark, muddy, and surrounded by a wooden privacy fence.
The nearest neighbor lived three houses away.
I could not walk.
I could barely crawl.
But the door was open.
I dragged myself across the threshold.
The moment my injured leg touched the wooden frame, pain ripped through me so violently that my scream came out before I could stop it.
I froze.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Someone had heard me.
I pressed one hand over my mouth and listened.
Another creak.
Then silence.
I moved faster.
Using my elbows and my right knee, I pulled myself into the rain. Mud soaked through my nightgown. The broken leg dragged uselessly behind me, catching on wet grass and stones.
The fence seemed impossibly far away.
I had crossed half the yard when the porch light came on.
A rectangle of yellow light spread across the grass behind me.
My entire body went cold.
“Claire?”
Mason’s voice came from the doorway.
I stopped breathing.
“Claire, where are you?”
He sounded irritated, not frightened.
The porch steps groaned beneath his weight.
I looked toward the fence.
There was a loose board near the back corner. Weeks earlier, I had watched a stray cat slip through it. At the time, I had thought nothing of it.
Now it was my only chance.
I dug my elbows into the mud and pulled.
Behind me, Mason stepped into the rain.
Then he saw the blood.
“What the hell?”
His footsteps quickened.
I reached the fence and clawed at the loose board. It shifted but did not open enough.
“Claire!”
His voice was close now.
I rammed my shoulder against the board.
It cracked outward.
I forced my head and one arm through the gap.
Mason grabbed my ankle.
Not the broken leg.
The other one.
His fingers locked around me.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I screamed and kicked backward with my free foot. My heel connected with something solid.
Mason cursed.
His grip loosened.
I shoved through the fence, splinters tearing my shoulder and hip. My injured leg struck the broken board, and white-hot pain flashed through my body.
Then I fell into the neighbor’s yard.
I heard Mason ripping at the fence behind me.
I crawled toward the nearest house.
A motion light turned on.
The back door opened.
An elderly woman stood beneath the porch awning in a blue robe, holding a cordless phone.
Her name was Mrs. Evelyn Porter.
I had spoken to her only twice.
Both times, Mason had stood beside me.
Now she stared at my soaked clothes, bloody hands, and twisted leg.
“Oh my God.”
“Please,” I gasped. “Call the police.”
Behind me, the fence board snapped.
Mason stepped into her yard.
“She fell,” he said immediately. “She’s confused. She needs to come home.”
Mrs. Porter looked at him.
Then at me.
Mason smiled, as though this were an embarrassing misunderstanding between husband and wife.
“My wife has been struggling emotionally since the miscarriage,” he continued. “I’m sorry she disturbed you.”
For one second, I saw uncertainty in Mrs. Porter’s eyes.
Mason saw it too.
He moved closer.
“Claire,” he said gently, “come back with me.”
I stared at the woman holding the phone.
“He broke my leg,” I said. “His mother hit me. They left me on the floor for hours.”
“That’s not true,” Mason snapped.
“He took my phone, my cards, my identification and my passport.”
“She’s hysterical.”
“They’re going to say I fell down the stairs.”
Mason’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But Mrs. Porter noticed.
She lifted the phone to her ear.
“I already called 911.”
Mason stopped walking.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
For the first time that night, fear appeared in his eyes.
He looked toward the fence, calculating whether he could escape before the police arrived.
Then he looked at me.
The kindness disappeared from his face.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he whispered.
Red and blue lights flashed across the neighboring houses.
Two patrol cars stopped in front of Mrs. Porter’s home. Officers ran through the side gate while paramedics followed with a stretcher.
Mason immediately raised both hands.
“My wife had an accident,” he announced. “She’s emotionally unstable and refusing help.”
One officer moved toward him.
The other knelt beside me.
“What’s your name?”
“Claire Bennett.”
“Claire, can you tell me what happened?”
“My mother-in-law struck me three times with a rolling pin. My husband refused to call an ambulance. They kept me inside the house.”
Mason interrupted.
“She’s lying.”
The officer beside him turned sharply.
“Sir, you need to remain silent while we assess the situation.”
“I’m her husband.”
“And right now, you’re interfering with emergency care.”
The paramedics cut away the fabric around my leg. One of them inhaled sharply when he saw the injury.
“This is an open fracture,” he said. “We need to move now.”
As they lifted me onto the stretcher, I grabbed the officer’s sleeve.
“There’s blood in the kitchen and laundry room. The rolling pin may still be near the counter.”
Mason’s face went pale.
“And my documents,” I continued. “They’re hidden somewhere in that house.”
The officer looked toward Mason.
“Do you consent to us entering the residence?”
Mason’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
The officer nodded once, as if he had expected that answer.
“Then we’ll secure the property while we request a warrant.”
The paramedics pushed me toward the ambulance.
Rain struck my face.
Mrs. Porter followed beside us, holding an umbrella over my head even though I was already drenched.
“You’re safe now,” she whispered.
I wanted to believe her.
Inside the ambulance, a paramedic inserted an IV and asked me questions to keep me conscious.
My name.
My age.
Whether I had allergies.
Whether I knew what day it was.
Then he asked for an emergency contact.
I closed my eyes.
My parents lived nearly five hours away. Mason had blocked their numbers months earlier and told them I needed space.
But there was one person whose number I had never forgotten.
“Daniel Mercer,” I whispered.
“Who is he?”
“My attorney.”
The paramedic hesitated.
“Do you want us to call a family member too?”
“No.”
I looked through the rear windows.
Mason stood in Mrs. Porter’s yard between two police officers, rain running down his face.
His expression was no longer angry.
He was smiling.
A calm, confident smile.
The kind he wore whenever he believed he had already planned three moves ahead.
“Call Daniel first,” I said.
The ambulance doors closed.
As we pulled away, my last view of Mason was his mouth forming four silent words.
You’ll never prove it.
He was wrong.
May you like
Because Mason had forgotten about the one thing I had hidden before they took my phone.
And if it was still where I left it, the small black device beneath our bedroom floor contained enough recordings to destroy his entire family.
