Page 231 of Snaring Emberly

If that didn’t work, he might tie the sheets together and climb down to make an escape.

I walk around the room, searching closets, pulling open drawers, and looking through cupboards. There’s nothing. Someone must have emptied out all the family’s possessions after the massacre.

“Shit.”

I suck in a deep breath, push those anxieties aside, and force myself to the patio door. I turn its handle. As expected, it’s locked, but that’s no obstacle to balcony escapes.

The first thing I need to do is find out if he’s left me here alone. If there’s a guard outside in the hallway, he’ll hear me breaking the glass.

I walk to the other door and try the handle. When it doesn’t open, I yell, “Excuse me?”

There’s no answer, which isn’t necessarily a sign that I’m free to proceed. After pressing my ear to the door and hearing no sound of movement, I lower myself onto my hands and knees to peek through the gap beneath the door.

The hallway is empty. On the plus side, at least I’m wearing shoes. The last time I needed to escape a locked room, I was naked and all I had to protect myself was a shard of glass and a few bedsheets.

Sending a silent word of thanks to whoever furnished this bedroom with thick curtains, I grab one side of the bed’s velvet drapes and yank it down with all my strength.

The fabric tears with a loud rip, leaving me with about eight feet of material for a makeshift rope. I move onto the second, then the third, and the fourth until I can make one rope long enough to reach the ground or two shorter ones that will require a small jump.

“Let’s go for two,” I mutter.

If one fails, then the other will stop me from tumbling down to the ground and turning a hostage situation into a tragedy.

I tie the ends of two drapes together and create a double knot before doing the same with the second pair. After pulling the fastenings taut, my gaze wanders to the curtains on the wall. With a bit more time, I might be able to make the ropes longer, but I’m going to need them for covering the broken glass.

“Let’s do this.”

I tear down the curtains around the window, wrap them around the top of the bedside table, and ram my makeshift mallet into the bottom pane. The soft pressure makes a clean crack, and I repeat the process until I can remove large pieces of glass using the fabric to protect my hands.

Once I’m done, I fold over the curtains, lay them on the floor, and crawl out onto the balcony with my two ropes.

Sweat breaks out across my brow as my mind dredges up thoughts of Roman. Did he go to the meeting point with backup? Was there enough time for him to wear a bulletproof vest?

A breeze drifts across my face, cooling my skin. Worrying about Roman won’t improve his chances of survival. If I break my neck escaping Tommy, then he will have sacrificed himself for nothing.

Sacrifice.

My breath catches, and I choke back a sob.The thought of Roman being dead is too much to bear. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fill my lungs with air, just as Lily taught us in my birth class. With a sharp exhale, I force out my anxiety.

It’s time to focus on getting out of here alive. For myself, the baby, and for Roman.

I secure the ropes to the balcony railing using double knots and yank hard to test their strength. When they hold firm, I grip the ledge of the balcony and swing one leg over the other side.

My back seizes with a twinge, and every muscle that tightened during the harrowing ride in the back of that van begins to protest.

“Fuck.” I grit my teeth through the pain.

There’s no time to rest. I wasted so much time hurling out my guts, and there’s no telling when Tommy or one of his henchmen will return.

Gripping the balcony’s metal railings, I lower myself down the side of the building. My body is so unwieldy that every inch of progress is a struggle. When my hands finally reach the balcony’s concrete base, I take hold of the ropes and descend.

My heart beats so hard that its vibrations reach my fingertips, and every inch of skin is coated with sweat. The only thing keeping me from sliding down to my death is the fabric’s friction.

The ropes strain against my weight, and each time I release one of them to get closer to the ground, it feels like I’m losing a lifeline. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and I swear I can hear footsteps. Intrusive thoughts urge me to speed up, check my progress, or jump down and land in a crouch, but I continue my slow descent.

“Hey!” booms a deep voice.

My head snaps up to the balcony, and I lock gazes with a man with Tommy’s slick features and black hair. He grips the railings and glares down at me, his eyes wide with shock.