bamboo doesn't grow in dark spaces. [80K Words / Complete]

chapter twenty-seven. 💛

As they moved further into the cold season, Sir began to spend more time in The Basement. He brought a space heater down to keep them warm. Switched the lights to the backup generator, making them dimmer, cozier. They stayed in bed far longer than they used to, huddled together for body warmth, the energy between them light with talk and laughter.

Sometimes, when they were at their best, a thought would flit through Case's mind. If he took away the kidnapping, the confinement to the basement, Case's relationship with Sir wasn't that different from his relationship with Hannah. If the circumstances were different, could he and Sir survive in the real world, as a real couple?

Is that what he wanted? They'd never even kissed—yet.

These thoughts were strange, confronting. They'd pop up in his mind, like mole-rats popping out from the wet, dark earth; and just as quickly, they'd slip back into the subterrain, which is where they stayed—always lurking and burrowing below the surface.

*           *           *

The book tower grew taller, becoming precariously shaky with height. Case had a good, mismatched collection of whimsy and adventure. So many ways to escape the basement, passing the time between his visits from Sir. Some with maps he'd lose himself in, like His Dark Materials or Eragon. Others with covers that literally glittered, like Charlie Bone and The Princess Diaries. Most focusing on kids who defeated the bad guys, like Percy Jackson or the Baudelaire orphans going up against the unrelenting awfulness of the world.

All of them marked by Sophie Scobie.

Case flipped to the inside cover, her name calling to him from every book like a siren song drawing doomed men out to sea. His backside ached from sitting on the ground, but he couldn't bring himself to roll out the yoga mat. Not anymore.

Since learning more about The Others, Case was sure Sophie was one of them. Maybe even Sir's original favorite. He pictured Sir, forced to get rid of her to avoid bringing a baby into the basement.

That, chimed in the voice, or he didn't want to fuck a pregnant girl.

Case pushed the voice away, still conflicted over whether the first reason gave Sir more or less humanity. He wondered if that's why Sir had kept her books. Mementos of how much he liked her, or perhaps he'd felt too guilty to discard them, too.

Case put the book aside, starting a second stack. He wondered how far along she was when she died. How she died. Had Sir been merciful—poisoned her so she went in her sleep? Brought something from the hospital so he could euthanize her without violence? Case hoped, for his sake and hers, that it had been kind. He took the thin paperback on top of his first stack, and opened the cover, knowing she was waiting for him there, too. There she was. In messy, pink handwriting:

Sophie, 8.

Case bolted upright. "Woah . . ." He leaned further over the page, drawn in by the power of a single, tiny number. His pulse quickened, a sweat breaking across his brow. "No . . . no . . ." This doesn't make sense. This can't be right.

Sir hadn't said anything about taking children.

He slammed the book down. Began to pace, aimless, repelled by the uneven patch marking her grave. The blood rushed from his head, making him woozy. Pin-needles of light fractured his vision. Back to the books. She'd written her age in a random copy of The Baby-Sitters Club. Had she written it anywhere else?

He went through all the copies of The Baby-Sitters Club, then through anything that was on the younger side of Middle-Grade. Then all his books, frantic, determined. But the hunt came up with nothing. Apparently, for young Sophie, writing her age in a book had been a complete once-off.