738 Days: A Novel
Authors: Stacey Kade
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To everyone who still believes in love, in spite of being bent and broken by this world. Don’t give up.
All writers have story ideas that intrigue them but won’t likely ever see the light of day. Too weird. Too dark. Too scary to contemplate writing.
This is one of mine. And the joy of seeing the idea become a full-fledged book has been beyond measure! I owe so many people an enormous debt of gratitude for the realization of Amanda and Chase’s story.
To Linnea Sinclair, my critique partner, who said, “Yes, write that one,” when I dared bring up the idea. To my incredible agent, Suzie Townsend, whose unwavering confidence in and enthusiasm for this story gave me the confidence I needed to write it.
To my editor and my friend, Whitney Ross, who gave Amanda and Chase a home and a future beyond scribbled notes in my journal. Thank you! It has been so much fun working together to make this story come to life.
To everyone at Tor/Forge for being excited about this book. You guys are amazing! Thank you especially to Amy Stapp and Seth Lerner. (Seth, I
love
the cover!)
To everyone at New Leaf Literary & Media, especially Kathleen Ortiz, Jess Dallow, and Danielle Barthel.
To Brent Crawford for generously sharing his experiences with acting and being on set. (I took
huge
liberties with the information, so any mistakes are mine.)
To Sophie Jordan, who gave me the advice I desperately needed to write certain scenes in this book.
To those near and dear to me who listen patiently, force me to step away from my computer every once in a while, and/or provide yummy carbohydrates in mass quantities: my husband, Greg Klemstein; my sister, Susan Barnes; my parents, Steve and Judy Barnes; Age, Dana, and Quinn Tabion; Ed, Debbie, Lauren, and Eric Brown; Becky Douthitt; and Michael, Jessica, Grace, and Josh Barnes. I love you!
Also, Taylor Swift. I always write to music, and
1989
was on repeat while I wrote and revised this book. “You Are in Love” made me cry every time.
Amanda Grace
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.
After a moment, the repairman settles with a sigh in front of the furnace. The tools hanging on the false wall jingle slightly when he bumps it. He is
that
close.
The temptation to call out rises up in my chest, but it dies before any sound can emerge. Jakes is down here somewhere, too. If I make noise, try to ask for help, and Jakes hears me …
I close my one good eye as terror dries out my throat.
Amanda, you have to let this guy know that you’re in here,
Chase insists. I can feel his gaze boring into me, those dark blue eyes so familiar to me after months of staring at them.
Today is the day we’ve been waiting for. You may not get another chance.
I can’t. Jakes might hear me,
I say. Leaving this horrible place, this cell decorated to look like a twisted version of a girl’s room, feels like an impossible dream, one I gave up a long time ago. Focusing on survival takes all my effort. It seems so much safer in that moment to stay curled up on the mattress.
He’ll kill me.
He’s going to kill you anyway, Amanda,
Chase roars.
DO SOMETHING.
Hot tears roll silently down my bruised face and into my hair as I slide off the mattress onto the floor, taking all the pink and frilly, ridiculous and hateful bedding with me. I can’t scream; it’s too much. I just can’t. But maybe I can try something else.
The air out here is much colder, and the icy concrete beneath the thin pink polyester nightie that Jakes has given me to wear sends a shiver through me.
What if he just ignores me? What if he asks Jakes about me and he believes whatever Jakes tells him?
I demand of Chase.
That could happen.
But I’m moving, scooting across the floor. Chase nods encouragingly, his blond hair perfect as ever in the early morning light that seeps through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
You have to try.
The chain wrapped around my left wrist moves with me, the faint clink muffled by blue plastic wrapped around the links. Just like what you’d use if you’d chained a dog in your yard and didn’t want to hear him moving around.
The chain is attached to a thick metal hook that’s set into the concrete wall to my left. Normally the chain is long enough for me to reach the bathroom on the other side of the room—a mold-infested shower without a curtain, a chipped and broken sink, and a toilet that barely flushes.
But today my chain was barely long enough to let me turn over on the mattress.
Now I understand why Jakes shortened it so much last night and why last night’s “visit” was so much worse. He
knew
someone was coming to the house this morning.
But he didn’t dare warn me and give me a chance to plan.
I inch closer to the door, staying flat on my back, my heart fluttering in abject terror. I can’t stand, can’t walk; the noise of the movement might be enough to draw Jakes’s attention. He has to be listening for any hint of rebellion from me. I’m just hoping he won’t be
looking
for it.
Once I’ve reached as far as the chain will allow, I stretch out my right hand. The door and the gap beneath it are right there. So close. My fingers brush the rough, unfinished edge of drywall.
I can’t reach,
I tell Chase.
You can,
he says without hesitation.
Yeah? Whose arm is it?
I snap at him.
But he doesn’t take offense, just watches me with that expectant look that won’t let me off the hook.
Ignoring the shooting pain in my left shoulder, I lean as far forward as I can, putting all my weight against the band of metal on my wrist.
My left shoulder gives an agonizing pop, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep quiet, the blood seeping between my teeth and into my mouth. Then, with one last herculean effort, I thrust my free hand toward the gap.
My fingers fit through, barely, sliding into the slightly warmer air of freedom on the other side.
I freeze. That’s it. All I can do. I’m terrified it won’t be enough. I’m equally terrified that it’ll be too much.
My whole body is quivering with fear, and I want nothing more than to pull my hand back and curl up in a defensive ball.
