Chapter 2

My lungs felt like they were filled with wet cement.

Sleep was impossible, a terrifying slide into breathlessness that jerked me awake.

The tiny gap I'd managed to create in the newspaper-stuffed window was gone.

Someone had come back and sealed it completely.

My phone, tucked into my pocket, vibrated. The screen was hot against my palm.

Dad. A video call.

Relief, sharp and overwhelming, made me gasp.

I fumbled with the answer button.

"Dad! Help me! Please, open the door... I can't... I'm going to die..."

His face on the screen was a mask of disgust.

"Stop the theatrics, Emily. Jessica told me she left the key for you on the old workbench before you even went down there."

The key? What key?

Jessica hadn't given me any key.

Before they left, she'd leaned close, her breath cool on my ear, and whispered, "Have fun suffocating, cousin."

My voice was a ragged whisper. "No... Dad... she didn't. No key... I'm trapped... I'm really sick..."

His face contorted with anger. He thought I was lying, trying to keep my notes from Jessica.

"You're always trying to undermine her! Worried she'll actually do better than you on her retake or with her applications? So petty!"

"My SAT prep notes," he demanded. "And your personal essay draft. Send them to Jessica. Now. She needs to see how a good one is structured."

I was barely conscious, the phone slipping in my sweaty hand.

I switched the camera to front-facing, trying to show him my face, flushed a dangerous, blotchy red.

"Dad... look at me..."

He cut the video feed instantly.

Jessica's saccharine voice drifted from his end. "See, Uncle Tom? I told you. She probably used my new blush palette, the crimson one. For sympathy... Oh, don't be too hard on her. Girls do these things..."

"Enough!" Dad's voice roared through the phone, even muffled. He was furious.

"You have five minutes, Emily. Five minutes to photograph those notes and email them. If Jessica doesn't have them, I'm telling Mrs. Davis to clear out everything from your desk. All of it. Burn it."

My notes. My essays. Three years of work. My only way out.

He hung up.

No time to explain. No way to make him believe.

Footsteps on the basement stairs. Mrs. Davis, our housekeeper.

A flicker of hope. She'd always been kind. When the earthquake drill happened at school, Mom and Dad had grabbed Jessica's hand first. Mrs. Davis had found me, terrified under a desk, and carried me out.

"Mrs. Davis!" I croaked, pressing my face to the door. "Help me... please..."

Her voice was hesitant. "Miss Emily... your parents... they were very clear..."

"Please, Mrs. Davis. You've known me since I was little... I can't breathe..." My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped.

In this house, only Mrs. Davis had ever shown me genuine warmth.

She sighed. A long, heavy sound. "Oh, you poor girl. But Mr. Wright is very insistent about those notes. Where do you keep them? I have to get those to him first..."

"Miss Emily, don't make this harder for me..."

The notes were lost. I knew it.

But survival...

"Top drawer... my desk..." I gasped. "Just... please... tell them... the window..."