“I’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Just get the hell out of here. Find a main road and have someone call the police.”

“What if—”

“Go, Cora. Please.”

Our eyes stay locked as his words trickle in and stick to every piece of me. I gulp down my fear and worries and self-doubt, nodding my head with concession. “Okay.” I climb to my feet, Dean following suit. My knees are weak and shaky as I lean in for one more hug, memorizing the scent of his skin. “I’m getting you out of here,” I whisper against his neck.

We hold eye contact for just a moment longer, then I turn away and jog over to the staircase.

“Cora.”

I pause at the sound of his voice, spinning around to face him from across the room. “Yes?”

Dean pulls his lips between his teeth, mulling over whatever he’s going to say. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, his grown-out hair sticking to his forehead. “I know I said you can go back to hating me when we get out of here,” he says in an angst-ridden voice. “But I really hope you don’t.”

A solemn silence hangs between us, thick and palpable.

I blink.

Then I smile and reply, “But it’s fun.”

Dean’s mouth tips up into his own smile, taking in the words I’ve adamantly denied for so long. I cling to that smile, using it as fuel as I make my way up the wood steps, hoping and praying the basement door is unlocked. If it’s not, I guess I’ll be squeezing myself through that tiny window that has taunted me for the past two-and-a-half weeks. I bite my lip, reaching out a tentative hand towards the doorknob.

It twists. The door squeaks open.

There is a God. There is a freakin’ God.

I blow out a slow breath, my body relaxing just a bit. I’ve made it out of the basement. Out of the dungeon. Out of Hell.

Now… to feel the crisp November air against my skin. I want to swallow it down and let it cleanse me, washing it all away. Every rape and sleepless night. Every stab of hunger and insatiable thirst. Every teardrop, every nightmare, every hollow thought.

I take cautious steps down the narrow hallway, passing the small bathroom on the left and heading towards the main living room. The house reeks of mold and urine. There are a few crooked pictures lining the walls, showing me that this monster isn’t an actual monster. He’s human. He has a life. A family. They have no idea what he has become.

I keep walking, noting a 1970s kitchen on the right and a musty living room on the left. There is an oak door off the living area. An escape.

But before I make my exit, a calendar catches my eye. It’s pinned to the wall in front of me with a red thumbtack. There are large exes made in black Sharpie across the dates starting from November 8th and ending yesterday, November 25th. There is a scribble next to the number eight that reads: “New Pets”. A shiver crawls up my spine as my feet make their way towards the calendar. It’s surreal to think that almost the entire month has been wasted in captivity.