When I’m sure Bernie’s stepdad isn’t listening, I say, “We need to do something.”

Jamie stares at me, his eyes bloodshot, and says, “No shit.” He looks terrified.

“He’s not going to kill us here,” I say.

Jamie shivers and shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“We have to. We don’t have much time. We need a plan.”

But it’s hard to plan when you have no idea what’s going to happen.

Is he going to keep us here until his wife gets back? Will Bernie come home from school to find us trapped in her room?

How long does it take a serial killer to figure out how to murder two people who willingly walked into his house?

It feels like another hour or more has passed when Mr. Farrell comes into the bedroom, a weird smile on his face, and says, “I know what to do with you.”

He pulls Jamie up, then me, and bundles us down the stairs. In the kitchen, he rips a dish towel in half, then gags us with it, and I have to focus on breathing through my nose as my chest tightens.

Then he pushes us through the broken back door, points to the garage, and says, “In there.” His car is inside, the trunk open, and when Jamie looks at him, he says, “Get in. Now.”

Jamie climbs in, and even though I’m sure there won’t be enough room, I follow.

I was right. But Mr. Farrell doesn’t care, slamming the trunk.

I hear the front of the garage slide open, the car door slam shut, the engine rumble, and the car slowly move forward.

Mr. Farrell gets out and pulls the garage door closed with a clunk, then starts driving.

It’s hard to breathe, but I do my best while simultaneously trying to wriggle free of the rope without kicking Jamie in the face.

We don’t attempt to communicate. We work with the space we’ve got, struggling helplessly to untie ourselves before the trunk springs open.

Wherever he’s taking us, that’s where he’ll do it. That’s where we’ll die. But I’m not ready to. There’s no way this bastard is going to kill me. There is no way he’s going to win.

I think of Mom and wonder if the people at Mayfield Lodge are right, if she really can hear the prayers I say inside my head.

Is she scared? Does she know I’m going to get out of this somehow? Or is she already planning my welcome party?

I try to shake the thoughts away, because they are not helping.

The car stops before I expect it to, but Mr. Farrell doesn’t come for us.

In the darkness, Jamie’s finger grips mine, and I pray that we’ll figure out a way to stay alive.

Chapter 136