The Girl Who Promised to Believe Me Locked Me in a 120°F Boathouse with Her Own HandsChapter 3

The air inside the boathouse grew thinner and thinner.

My ears rang. Darkness pulsed at the edges of my vision.

In a haze, I remembered Claire holding my hand.

It had been after practice. My chest had hurt so badly that I had crouched outside the locker room, unable to stand.

She had searched for me for a long time before she found me.

She knelt in front of me and folded my hand into hers.

“If you’re ever scared, call me.”

“I’ll come.”

I had believed her.

I really had.

Because all my life, people had come and gone.

Foster homes changed. Promises were made. Most of them were never kept.

But Claire had seemed different.

I thought she was the one person who would not leave me behind.

And now I was behind a door only a few steps away from her.

I had called her.

I had begged her.

She would not even listen to my whole plea.

I braced my hand against the floor and tried to stand. I wanted to pound on the door again. I wanted to call her name one more time.

But halfway up, a tearing pain ripped through my chest.

My body lost balance.

I fell sideways and slammed my forehead into a rusted metal rack inside the boathouse.

There was a dull crack.

Warm liquid spilled from my brow and ran into my eyes.

Hot.

Sticky.

I lay on the floor, my fingertips scraping against the rough concrete as I tried to crawl toward the door.

If I could just reach it.

If I could just hit it one more time.

If Claire heard even one sound that was wrong, maybe she would open it.

But my throat felt blocked. Only broken breaths came out.

Blood slowly seeped under the door.

Someone outside finally noticed.

“What’s that under the door?”

“Is that blood?”

A scream cut through the party.

The crowd stirred.

For one second, I thought I might finally be saved.

Then Lucas raised his voice.

“Blood? Come on.”

“Don’t let him scare you.”

“Ethan loves this kind of pity stunt. He probably squeezed ketchup packets under the door to make Claire feel bad.”

Footsteps came closer.

Claire walked to the door.

Her heels stopped in front of that dark red pool.

Through the metal between us, I heard her cold voice.

“Ethan, are you done?”

“You’re really using something this disgusting just to force me to back down?”

I wanted to answer her.

I wanted to tell her it was not ketchup.

It was my blood.

But I could not make a sound.

She took my silence as another part of the act.

“Fine.”

“If you want to perform, then perform.”

Then she turned and spoke to someone else.

“Bring another lock.”

Soon, chain scraped against the door.

Click.

The second lock fell into place.

In front of everyone, Claire said calmly, “When he’s done acting, he’ll beg to come out.”

“No one opens this door tonight.”

I listened to that second lock close as darkness pressed down over my eyes.

The deepest despair was not knowing no one would save you.

It was knowing the key was in the hands of the person you loved most.