Chapter 2
Close.
I looked at Lorenzo’s size.
Then at the stairs.
“This will hurt.”
“Everything does.”
“Do not confuse pain tolerance with usefulness. Stay conscious.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It was.”
I wrapped one of his arms across my shoulders and tried to lift him.
He weighed nearly twice what I did.
His knees folded.
Emma grabbed his free hand.
“I’m helping.”
“No, baby. Stay behind me.”
“But I found him.”
The dog barked again.
The shed door shifted in the wind.
No time.
“Hold his fingers,” I told her. “Do not pull.”
Together, in the least graceful rescue in organized-crime history, we moved Lorenzo down the steps.
He leaned heavily against me, one hand braced against the stone wall. Blood soaked through the towel I had pressed over his side. Each turn of the stair tightened his jaw, but he made no sound.
Emma descended backward, clutching his fingers and whispering, “One step. One step. One step.”
Above us, the shed door opened.
Light entered.
I lowered the oak panel over our heads just as a man stepped inside.
The darkness became complete.
Emma inhaled sharply.
I covered her mouth before fear could become sound.
Boots crossed the floor above us.
A flashlight shone through the seams between the boards.
“Nothing,” a man said.
“There’s blood outside.”
“The dogs lost the line near the greenhouse.”
“Check the drainage ditch.”
The potting bench scraped across the floor.
I stopped breathing.
Lorenzo’s head rested against the stone beside mine. I could feel heat rising from his skin now, despite the cold in his hands.
Shock.
Blood loss.
Maybe internal injury.
Above us, the searcher walked away.
The door closed.
We remained still for another full minute.
Then I found the wall switch.
Nothing happened.
Lorenzo reached past me and pressed a small metal plate near the arch.
A low amber light came alive.
The storm room was larger than I expected.
An iron bed stood against one wall beneath a striped mattress covered in dust. A wooden table occupied the center. Shelves held glass jars, old books, water canisters, blankets, and sealed metal boxes marked with dates from the late nineties.
On the far wall hung a black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man carrying a young boy on his shoulders.
The boy was Lorenzo.
May you like
He looked eight.
He was laughing.
