Chapter 3

Minutes stretched into an eternity of labored breaths.

The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on me.

Mrs. Davis's footsteps receded. She hadn't tried the door.

Then, a new sound. Her voice, muffled, from the other side of the door.

"Mr. Wright? Yes, I have them... Yes, the spiral-bound ones and the folder with the essay drafts... No, she's... she says she's not feeling well, but the air conditioning is on up here, she probably just wants attention... Yes, I'll leave them on Miss Jessica's bed."

Air conditioning? Attention?

The newspapers in the window. Jessica's lie about the key. Now Mrs. Davis.

A conspiracy of cruelty.

My phone. My last chance.

My fingers, clumsy and weak, fumbled with the screen. 9-1-1.

The call connected.

"911, what's your emergency?" A calm, female voice.

"Help..." I choked out. "Basement... can't breathe... asthma..."

"Ma'am, I need your address."

"12... Willow Creek..." My voice faded. The phone slipped.

Dark spots danced in front of my eyes.

Grandma Eleanor.

I had to call Grandma. She lived in Florida, by the ocean. She'd understand. She'd help.

I swiped, trying to find her contact. My vision was blurring.

The call connected. One ring.

Then, a click. Disconnected.

A text message flashed on the screen. From my own number, to Grandma: *"Sorry, pocket dial! All good here! Love you!"*

Then another: *"Phone acting weird, might not get texts for a bit. Will call later!"*

Jessica.

She must have used Dad's phone, or gotten my cloud password somehow. She'd been asking about setting up a new photo-sharing app for Grandma last week, "to make it easier for her."

She'd blocked my only lifeline.

The darkness was closing in.

A faint memory surfaced. Dad, years ago, before Jessica. Showing me a hidden latch on the old coal chute door, now boarded up from the outside. "Just in case, Emmy-bean. Emergency exit."

The coal chute. It was in the far corner, behind a stack of old tires.

I crawled, inch by agonizing inch.

My nails scraped against the concrete floor.

The chute was rusted, stiff. But the latch... it moved.

A sliver of cooler, fresher air. Not much, but something.

I pressed my face to the tiny opening, gasping.

Then, a sound from outside. A siren. Faint, but growing louder.

Hope, a fragile thing, flickered.

The siren got closer, then stopped. Right outside.

Footsteps on the porch. Loud knocking.

"Police! Open up!" A man's voice.

More knocking. Then, a splintering crash.

They were breaking down the door.

Light flooded the basement stairs as the door was forced open.

A figure stood silhouetted against it. Tall, uniformed.

"Emily? Emily Wright?"

It was Officer Peterson. Dad's old high school football buddy. He knew about my asthma. He'd seen me have attacks at neighborhood barbecues.

"Down here..." I tried to yell, but it was a pathetic squeak.

He found me by the coal chute, a crumpled heap.

His face was grim. "Oh, Emily. Hang on, kid."

He scooped me up. His uniform felt rough against my cheek.

"Called it in as a possible wellness check, dispatch said the line was open, sounded like a kid in distress," he muttered, more to himself, as he carried me up the stairs.

The fresh air outside was like a punch to the lungs, but a good one.

Paramedics were waiting. Oxygen mask, questions I couldn't answer.

As they loaded me into the ambulance, I saw them.

Mom, Dad, and Jessica, pulling into the driveway in Dad's SUV.

They looked annoyed.

"What in the world is all this commotion?" Dad demanded, striding towards Officer Peterson.

Jessica was beaming, holding a small, gaudy trophy. "We're back! I won the regional debate prep award!"

She looked from the ambulance to me, her smile faltering for a microsecond before becoming a mask of concern. "Oh my goodness, Emily! What happened?"