Page 122 of Stay Buried

“Mal!” she cried, trying to keep her voice down. “Come here! And bring the hammer!”

The boards covered a small rectangular window—she could see a few tiny slivers of daylight peeking through the cracks. Ashley yanked the ladder back into place, tossed the rug off it, and scampered up. Malcolm appeared and handed her the hammer. She went to work prying at the rusty nails with the claw of the hammer.

Up above, there was more knocking. More footsteps. More panicked voices shouting about the marks.

The first nail popped out, went flying. She jammed the claw of the hammer under the edge of the board and leaned on it hard with both hands, while Malcolm sturdied the ladder. The board came loose; she wrenched it from the wall and flung it to the floor. Behind it was a window with a filthy, cracked pane of glass. If they could get to it, it was just big enough for them to shimmy through.

The second, upper board was easier—a couple of good whacks with the hammer, and the decaying wood split, allowing her to pull it off the window in pieces.

“Hell, yeah!” Malcolm cheered her on.

Ashley unlatched the window, pulling on it. But the wood was old and rotten, swollen tight. Fueled by fear and desperation, Ashley gave the window a shove, then yanked back with all the force she could muster. The wood came loose, opening so quickly that she nearly lost her balance on the ladder.

The broken glass that was in the rotten frame fell out and hit the floor with an explosive smash.

Ash and Malcolm looked at each other, terrified. Upstairs, the noises got quiet.

“Let’s go,” Mal whispered. “Now!”

Then she heard footsteps moving toward the top of the staircase.

“I need Mom’s bag,” she said, scrambling down to grab the leather tote.

“You first,” he said, still holding the rickety wooden ladder. She climbed up, threw the bag out the open window, then pulled her upper body through the opening, shimmying as she wiggled her hips through, the belt loop on her jeans catching on a nail.

“Ashley?” Josephine’s voice called from the top of the stairs. Her footsteps started to descend. “Malcolm?”

“We’re good,” Malcolm called up to her. “Just dropped a canning jar.”

Ashley freed herself with a jerk, squirmed out, grabbed the bag from the ground, and stood up, keeping her body pressed against the house so no one could see her out of the window.

Mal scurried up the ladder and slid through the opening effortlessly.

They held their positions, backs flat against the house, eyes on the woods that began on the other side of the wide expanse of Josephine’s back lawn. No choice. They had to make a run for it.

“On three,” Ashley said, then did the countdown:

“One.

“Two.

“Three!”

They bolted across the yard, neither one of them looking back. For a brief second, Ashley wondered what would happen if someone in the house had a gun. They’d be easy targets—no cover, nowhere to go but in a straight line, running, running, breathing like freight trains, muscles and lungs screaming with effort.

At last they reached the woods, the safe cover of trees. They kept going, only slowing as much as necessary to scramble over tree roots and through brush.

They did not dare to turn around.

It seemed impossible that no one had come after them, no shots fired, no pounding footsteps; no one even shouted for them to stop.

Almost as if they’d decided to let them go.

We’re running right to him, Ashley thought.Whoever, whatever he is, he’s out here in these woods, waiting for us.

But then again, really, what choice did they have?

They just kept going, forging their own trail deep into the darkest place of the woods.