738 DAYS

Prologue

Two years ago

Amanda. Wake up. Chase's voice is urgent in my ear.

I don't want to move. I know from experience that this hazy moment before full consciousness, before the pain kicks in, is the best it's going to get. As it is, I can already feel the rawness between my legs returning, the distant throb in my cheekbone growing sharper, and the taste of stale blood is getting stronger in my mouth. He must have loosened another tooth last night. A molar, maybe; those are pretty much the only undamaged ones I have left.

Amanda, get up. Chase sounds commanding, but there's also panic, which he's trying to hide. This is it. Our chance. Listen.

The thump of heavy boots on the stairs to the basement makes my heart skitter in my chest, like an animal frantic to escape from behind my ribs. Just like usual.But something else is different this time.

I listen more closely.

Two sets of footsteps, and then . . . voices.

"It sounds like it might be a circuit board. That means parts. Or maybe it's just a dirty sensor. I won't really know until I get into the furnace." This new voice is male as well, but it sounds older, out of breath, and vaguely annoyed.

Someone else is here. Someone besides Jakes.

The realization shoots electricity through my veins. In all the time I've been in this room— years, I think, but I'm not sure how many—no one has been in the house, let alone in the basement. The sole footfalls on the floor overhead have always been Jakes's distinct drag/shuffle.

Until today.

I open my eyes, realizing belatedly that my left eye isn't cooperating. It's swollen shut. But that doesn't matter. Someone else is here.

"Furnace is this way," Jakes says, his voice growing louder as he moves closer to the false wall that hides the entrance to my cell. His tone holds that sullen note I know too well, and everything in me recoils. He's in a bad mood.

My heart sinks. That's only going to make things so much worse later.

Not if you're gone, Chase says stubbornly. He's been here almost as long as I have, keeping me company, keeping me sane. He still believes that we'll get out one day. I can't afford to think like that. It hurts too much.

"You can fix it today, right?" Jakes demands.

"Don't know. Won't know until I have a look," the repair guy says, his irritation clear. I can picture Jakes shifting from foot to foot, his rage contained, but barely, by the constant motion. He is a control freak—and a violent sicko freak on top of it— but the control thing is huge. Letting someone else into his little kingdom has to be just pissing him off beyond all measure. And I would be the one to pay for it.

Another reason to get out of here now, Chase reminds me from where he's leaning against the opposite wall, the sole of his black motorcycle boot pressed flat against it. His posture is relaxed, but tension is thrumming through him. If he could shout for me, he would do it. But he can't, so he's stuck.

"Excuse me," the repair guy says to Jakes pointedly. The furnace is right outside my room. I see it every time Jakes comes in. And I can easily imagine Jakes in the way, standing guard in front of the section of the wall that opens to where I am.

Actually, I don't have to imagine it; the piece of drywall on hinges doesn't quite reach all the way to the floor, so when I turn my head, I can see their shadows moving in the inch-wide gap as Jakes reluctantly cedes his position.