Chapter 36: NOW - The Safe Room

I sit up straight, immediately aware that something is wrong. My mouth is fuzzy, my tongue velvety, and I’m on a cot bed, the thin mattress barely cushioning me from a hard floor. The air is freezing cold and pitch black. There’s a metallic tang in the air, along with the mustiness of damp.

“Sophie?” I say, my voice croaking.

I stand, placing my hands out in front of me to grope around. My fingertips find the wall and trace along the smooth, cold surface until I find the light switch. When the room is illuminated, I flinch, closing my eyes against the bright light. A brutal throb pounds inside my head.

The pinprick.

Peter.

Oh God.

My stomach lurches and I want to bend over and throw up but somehow I stop myself. I rub my temples, allowing my eyes to adjust to the light.

I know exactly where I am. I’m in the cellar safe room that Ed and I designed. I recognise the small bed underneath shelves filled with food. I see the same toilet and sink I picked out of a catalogue. On the other side of the small room is the refrigerator full of bottled water. Over the years I ended up using this space for extra storage and there are boxes of protein bars stacked up alongside bulk orders of tinned soup. I grab a bottle of water and quickly replenish my thirst. I need to keep a clear head. Staying hydrated will help. Panicking and banging against the walls won’t. I know why I’m here. Peter put me here.

There’s a small desk in the corner with two large monitors installed into the wall. On the desk is a computer, which is already on, and playing across each monitor are the camera feeds from several security cameras in the house. The living room, kitchen, hallway and main bedroom. I freeze. There’s my daughter in the kitchen with Peter Harlow. I let out a rasping gasp of terror.

Sophie.

I have to get out of here. I rush to the keypad and tap in the usual code to unlock the door.

Nothing happens. The lock does not release.

There should be a manual release, too, but the crank is missing. Peter must have removed it.

I check the tiny screen above the keypad that tells me I’ve entered the wrong code. How is that possible? It’s my code, I set it up. I distinctly remember coming down here, setting everything up and even telling Sophie the code in case she ever locked herself in while playing.

Shit.

I check my pockets. My keys, mobile phone and password book are all gone.

I close my eyes and lean back against the wall. Peter knows the codes. He’s been able to override everything. The security system to the house, the passcode for the safe room. He’s in control of everything.

There has to be a way out of here. I grab the computer mouse and shake it to refresh the screen. But the operating system is set up for CCTV only. There’s no browser. I can’t send an email or Google anything. All I can do is flick through the different cameras set up in the house to watch Peter Harlow and my daughter.

The safe room was designed as a place to hide away from an intruder. I had the screens installed so I could track an intruder throughout the home. Sour bile sits in my stomach.

I have to do something. I can’t stay in here.

I pace around the 10ft square room, trying to remember every specification from when we built it. The walls, door and ceiling are reinforced with steel and bullet proof. There’s a macerator toilet—one which grinds waste to allow for plumbing into smaller pipes. There are also two vents, one with a fan, which I can hear whirring right now. They’ll stop me running out of oxygen, but it’s going to get more and more claustrophobic as time goes on.

Neither of the vents are anywhere near big enough for me to shimmy out of.

We made this room impenetrable. But we thought we would be keeping someone out. We never knew it would be used to keep me in.

This room is designed to protect me and my family for several hours. It is not designed to be lived in. Panic seizes hold of me. Two ice-cold fists grab hold of my lungs and I can’t breathe. When I close my eyes, I imagine the air flowing in and out of the room. Thin, stuffy air that I can barely breathe. I grab the bottle of water and take a few sips, trying to calm down.

He’s done the worst thing he could possibly do to me. He’s trapped me like an animal and taken my daughter from me.

I move back to the desk, still breathing shakily, and grab one of the blankets from the bed. At least Peter hasn’t cut the feed. I can watch. My God. All I can do is watch, like he’s watched me all these years. Is this what he wanted? For me to suffer the fate of observing but not participating? That was his choice. I’ve never had a choice in any of this.

He could hurt my baby, and I’d have to sit here and watch. There’s a gulp in my throat. Like a frog caught there.

Peter and Sophie are in the kitchen under natural light, so at least I know it’s morning. Sophie is sitting at the table while Peter has his back to her, doing something at the counter. The camera, placed above the door, shows me them from above. I can’t see Sophie’s face, only the crown of her head, and her straight back, but even from that angle, I know she’s afraid. I see the tension in her body.

I touch the screen, every part of me aching to be with her, to comfort her. The man who plagued my nightmares turns around, a knife in his hand and a smile on his face as he says something to my child.

An image flashes through my mind. The knife is in my hand and I’m slashing his throat. Blood everywhere. I’ve had horrible thoughts about Peter over the years. I’ve wished him dead many times. But now I think I could actually do it. I could murder him. My skin grows hot at the thought. My hands tighten into fists.

This is true hate.

Then I remember that the cameras pick up sound too. I turn up the volume on the screen.

“Mummy is safe, Sophie, don’t you worry. You’ve been such a good girl for me. Everything is going to be okay as long as you’re a good girl.”

His voice makes my skin crawl. Over the years he seems to have perfected that slightly high-pitched, nasal tone. One that makes him sound like a lost little boy. But he’s no longer an attractive twenty-something man. He’s in his late thirties, stocky, and the light brown mop of hair I’d found cute is now starting to thin.

He wears a check shirt done up to the collar, and blue jeans. He moves closer to the table, and my heart skips a beat when he looks directly into the camera. Lines crinkle around those nutmeg eyes I’d once found so dreamy. Then he smiles, like he knows I’m watching, and I see that his teeth have yellowed over time.

I want to punch the screen. I want to run away, to crawl into a tiny ball and hide. I want to throw up. I want to climb into the screen and grab Sophie and get out. Every thought conflicts with the others. I feel like a mess. Like someone on the brink of madness.

Peter turns around, places the knife on the counter and picks up a plate. Then he opens the door next to the pantry that leads down to the cellar. Adrenaline spikes my blood as I realise he’s coming here to see me. I back away from the desk and stare at the door. I need to be ready in case he enters. I need a weapon.

I grab a tin of soup. At least it has some weight to it.

Is it heavy enough to kill him? I hope so.

I hear his footsteps now, coming closer.

“Amber? Are you awake?”

I grip the tin and wait for the door to open.