Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Saul was gone.
He wasn’t coming to save me.
I comforted myself with the knowledge that he would save Trix, that he was likely already halfway to the emergency vet with her.
If Saul wasn’t going to save me, I had to try to save myself.
I shifted up, forcing my bound legs beneath me, allowing me to look around the basement.
Coach Dover had spared no expense with the soundproofing tiles. They were floor-to-ceiling on every inch of the basement, covering the ceiling above me.
Something about the space felt wrong.
I mean, aside from the soundproofing, the staged house, complete with a tiny kitchen, dining space, living room, and a makeshift bathroom. Makeshift, because there must not have been any running water in the basement.
So instead of a flushing toilet, it seemed to sport a composting one. A giant plastic container of sawdust sat beside it. There was a small cabinet with a washbasin and pitcher sitting on it. Beside that was what I assumed was supposed to be the bath. All it was, in reality was a kiddie pool with a shower curtain half pulled around it, and a bucket with a camping shower wand hanging out of it.
It was absurd to feel relief at a toilet and the potential of not stewing in my own filth for who knew how long.
It not only meant dignity, I reminded myself, but each item in the basement that wasn’t just bare cinderblock walls and cement floors meant I could potentially find or craft a weapon.
I couldn’t imagine that my old coach would spend every moment with me. He had to pay for the house, for one. There had to be some sort of job allowing him to afford that.
Sure, maybe he had cameras, but if I was smart, I could find a way to forge the weapon before he could stop me.
I was about to try to knee-walk across the basement when I heard a loud groaning sound, a click, footsteps, and another groan, followed by more steps.
He was coming.
He was already here.
“You’re awake,” Coach Dover said as he clumsily made it to the lowest step, his gaze fixed on me. His one leg had a bulge around the thigh from where he’d patched up the screwdriver wound.
A chill washed down my spine at seeing those damn see-through eyes pinned on me.
“Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” he asked, tone light, friendly.
I wanted to rant, rave, scream, spit, fight.
But if he was being calm and friendly, I figured my best bet was to mirror that back to him.
Because this wasn’t the same old Coach Dover; this version of him had clearly been hitting the gym. He’d shredded a bunch of weight and added on a ton of muscle.
A man that big with that much strength was really, really dangerous.
As sick as it made me feel, I made my voice sweet, almost a little coy.
“I like the colors. They’re… nostalgic.”
“Speaking of,” he said, pleased that I’d made the connection.
He walked over to a small chest and pulled out something that had my blood turning to ice.
My old soccer uniform.
He took it?
He kept it?
“Oh, wow,” I said, trying not to let my voice wobble.
“I have a lot of good memories of this uniform.”
“Me too,” I lied.
“You were so easy to track across the field. All that red hair…”
Coach Dover stroked the material as he said this, his eyes far away, lost in a memory.
I sat there quietly, letting him have it.
The less time I had to engage with him, the better.
“And then that school took it all away from me.”
The tension in his jaw had my spine snapping straight. His meaty hands curled hard into the material of the uniform. I couldn’t help but imagine those same hands grabbing me, squeezing me.
I had to try to calm him back down.
“How long did it take to get all these foam tiles up?” I asked, angling my head up to pretend to admire him, but I was carefully tracking him in my periphery.
“The tiles didn’t take too long. It was the rubber inserts and plywood that took a long time. I never really worked with tools before. I’ve always admired how good you were with them.”
From all the times you watched me without knowing, you freaking creep.
“My grandfather taught me.”
I hated even allowing him to know anything about that good, sweet, loving man. But whatever it took to keep him from suspecting that I was just looking for any opportunity to escape.
“My grandfather was a drunk.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We used to watch the game together.”
“Soccer?”
To that, he snorted. “No, he said that wasn’t a man’s sport. I had to watch that in private.”
“That’s a shame. Some of the best athletes have been soccer players.”
“He never saw that. Did yours?”
“He was at every one of my games.”
“Not at college.”