Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Outside, over an intercom, a voice came. “Twenty.”
Oh God. A countdown. Just like that long-ago day when Father had begun calling out the numbers, when Violet had been forced to choose. The realization came distantly. Her thoughts were staggered, seemingly disconnected from reality. The pain in her leg was sharp and overwhelming.
Mirabelle—Violet—turned, a small, sad smile on her lips as once again she stood between her two boys.
“Nineteen.”
And even in her disconnected state, Sienna knew. “Mirabelle,” she whispered. A goodbye.
Below, Danny moved, pulling himself backward with his arms, his leg dragging uselessly as he cried out in pain. He slumped against the wall, chest rising and falling with stilted breath.
“Eighteen.”
“Mom!” Gavin called, panic in his tone.
“I love you both so much,” Mirabelle choked, stepping onto the escalator. And before Gavin could even step forward, Mirabelle began moving rapidly down the narrow set of steps, toward Danny.
“Seventeen.”
“Sienna,” Danny called from below, his voice weak and shaky and so soft she could barely hear it over the escalating activity outside. “Violet Whitney Hastings,” he said, his head going back and hitting the wall.
“Sixteen.”
“Twenty-three, seventy-four . . .” Danny grunted. What are you saying, Danny? He tried to take in a breath, but it ended in a coughing fit, his neck bending to the side.
“Fifteen.”
Gavin made a growling sound of frustration and panic in the back of his throat, adjusting Sienna in his arms. He took one step toward Mirabelle but then pivoted, his growl turning into a sob as he kicked the door in front of them open, Sienna gripped tightly in his arms as they moved forward. Away.
“Fourteen.”
Sienna understood. She knew. If they stayed and attempted to force Mirabelle to come with them, they’d all die. Mirabelle had made her choice. Once again, she’d stood between her sons, and this time, she’d chosen Danny, because the first time she had not.
Gavin’s breath gusted against her cheek. Sienna could no longer hear the countdown from this inner, enclosed section of the building, but she said the numbers in her mind.
Thirteen.
Gavin ran through the room they hadn’t taken the time to explore, the one that held the clues to Mirabelle’s address. The room that, had they taken the time to work through it, would have been their grave, all of them buried under rubble, just as the game master had planned.
Twelve.
Gavin burst through the second door, heading to the outer one through which he’d entered. What was he going to do? Tear the alarm from the wall? Then they’d never get out. Use a battering ram? They didn’t have time. Her mind grew cloudy, pain rolling through her like a red wave.
Eleven.
Danny had called numbers to her. What had they been? Twenty-three, he’d said. Seventy-four.
Violet Whitney Hastings.
Mother.
It all came back distantly, flitting in and out of her mind.
Ten.
Gavin ran through one door into another, entering the room that had once been the kitchen, lifting his leg and kicking the cabinet they’d put in front of the door.
“The periodic table,” she murmured. He’d used his mother’s name . . . the code to it all. The final answer. The world was closing in around the edges. She was so cold, so incredibly cold. Her jaw didn’t want to move. Violet . . . V . . . atomic number twenty-three. That was right, wasn’t it? She’d thought it was a moment ago. She tried desperately to bring forth the picture of that table she’d studied so hard, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. So cold. It hurts. God, it hurts. Whitney . . . W . . . She couldn’t remember what that stood for or even if its atomic number was seventy-four.
Nine.
Gavin’s breath came out in sharp exhales as they ran through the kitchen, the pounding of his feet causing her leg to bounce and throb with horrible pain. But he had to. Hurry. Hurry.
“The initials relate to the numbers from the periodic chart,” she slurred. “Violet. Twenty-three. Whitney. Seventy-four.” He ran into the tall open area he’d entered through, the one where Danny had made them play a sick version of hide-and-go-seek as he’d shot at them from where Sienna could now blearily see was an open second story, and Gavin sprinted for the door.
Eight.
Violet Whitney Hastings. H . . . Hastings . . . hydrogen. “I think it’s the first one at the very top,” she managed as he skidded to a stop at the door, the panel blinking. His breath came out in sharp pants. “Twenty-three, seventy-four,” he repeated. “What are the last two digits, Si?” He sounded desperate, panicked, and she knew she should be, too, but instead, she was floating . . . drifting. How much blood have I lost? Hydrogen was at the top of the chart. The very first one. She squinted, reaching for what her mind had retained. Please.