Star Crossed (Starlight #3) (20 page)

A last minute thought occurs to me. Perhaps if I can damage the necklace in some way, Adam might work out that I’m faking. It’s a long shot. But it’s the only thing I can think of.

With what this necklace means, I can only hope that Adam will know I would never damage it.

Keeping it tight in my ha
nd, I bend the thin metal ever so slightly. I feel it curve a little in my grip. Not much. But enough to suggest I haven’t taken care of it.

I don’t know if I’ve done enough. Or if Adam will even realise I’ve left him a clue. But it’s the only thing I’ve got.

The man takes the necklace and looks at it suspiciously, turning it this way and that.

‘
It’s not a trick,’ I assure him. ‘Adam gave me that necklace to… To encourage me on the show. If I send it back he’ll know I’m serious about not competing.’

The man seems satisfied with this. He pockets the necklace and nods.

‘I’ll make sure Adam gets it,’ he says. Then he adjusts the camera and flicks a switch so a stream of light hits my face.

‘
Now,’ says they man. ‘Are you ready for the performance of your life?’

Chapter 25

When the recording is finished, it’s like I’ve been dreaming. Whilst the camera was on, it was surprisingly easy to play the role. I acted the penitent star – apologetic and sad for letting people down. But adamant this was the best thing for everyone.

I played heavily on losing my band, and the pressures of going it alone. And I made several references to commitment to be sure Adam
understands.

It broke my heart. But I know when he sees me on camera without his
necklace, he’ll get the message.

He’ll think I didn’t mean it when I said forever.

I wait until my captor has exited the basement to start crying. Adam will think I betrayed him. That I took his words of love and threw them away. I can’t stand to think of it.

The deep pain galvanises me to act. I don’t know what day it is. But I must still have time to make things right. If only I can escape.

My thoughts return to the hairclip. I can’t reach under the radiator with my hands. So I shuffle painfully around so that my foot can sweep for the missing clip. On the first attempt I dislodge nothing but dust. I try again, angling as far as I can with my foot.

Damn. Still nothing. The handcuffs cut deep into my skin but I won’t give up. On the third attempt I hear something scrape across the cement floor.

Got it!

But in my strained position my foot slips, and skids out from under radiator. I hear the terrible sound of the metal hairclip skidding far across the floor out of reach.

No. No!

I let out a cry of defeat. Now I have nothing. I scrunch my eyes tight shut, trying to push back the tears of
self-pity.

Adam will think I’ve abandoned him…

I grit my teeth. I won’t give up. I won’t. I just need some other way to pick the lock. Some thin metal item. My eyes scan my immediate environment. Nothing here. Do I have a buckle on my boot perhaps?

I twist my leg to examine my footwear. But that’s not going to work. The buckle is short and stubby. Then I remember. My bra!

I’m wearing an underwired bra. Maybe that could be useful.

Frantically, I inch up my bra with my bound hands. The
underwiring is encased firmly in the fabric, but I manage to get a corner to my teeth, and after several attempts, one end of the wire springs free.

Yes!

I drag the wire out using a combination of my mouth and hands. And then I have it. The curved wire. Maybe, just maybe this will work.

I hear footsteps overhead again and I freeze. But they pass over and the basement
trap- door stays shut. Quickly I start digging at the lock with the wire.

I’m not sure what exactly I’m hoping to achieve. I’ve never picked a lock. And I try all different angles before I start bending the wire and trying different shapes.

After half an hour of determined effort I’ve still yielded no results, but I’ll never give up. I try to imagine how a lock might work inside. How a key could open it.

Pushing again with the wire, I try each corner of the lock prying for tumblers. And then I hear it. A click.
A definite click.

I pull at the cuffs excitedly, but they’re still bound tight.

There was no mistaking it. Something moved in the lock.

It occurs to me that a lock might have several
components which a key moves all at once. Maybe the wire opened just one part. Maybe if I open the rest I’ll get free.

Charged with this new theory I set to work on the lock again. But this time I use the same
technique which made the sound, hooking in to a corner and pulling out.

Another ten minutes of persistence and I’m rewarded with another click.

The handcuffs are still firm, but I fall to the lock frantically now. I’m so sure I’m near to picking it open.

When the final click comes I’m proved right. I feel the handcuffs loosen on my wrists and as I pull them they come apart.

The cuffs fall to the floor. I can hardly believe it. I’m free. The thought brings a surge of elation.

Don’t celebrate yet Summer
, I admonish myself.
You’re still locked in a basement.

Still, my escape has given me confidence. Surely my kidnapper restrained me, because he assumed I could
get out of the basement?

I stand awkwardly, stumbling. My uncomfortable position on the floor has sent my legs to sle
ep. The blood returning to my legs is like a hot wave of prickling needles. But I don’t have time to wait. Using the radiator to right myself I assess my possible escape routes.

Right away I rule out the trapdoor. Not only is it probably locked from above, I don’t know whereabouts my kidnappers are in the house. I could walk right into them. My attention shifts to the tiny window. It’s secured with thick bars on the inside. I make my way towards it.

The bars are impenetrable. No way through. But they’re secured to the window with huge rusty old bolts. My fingers grasp at the ageing metal, trying to get a grip. But without a tool, the bolts don’t budge. The rusty metal cuts into my fingers.

Ow
!

I yank my fingers away, sucking at them where the blood has started flowing.

Ok. So I need a spanner. Or some kind of tool.

I sweep the dark basement hopefully, but there’s nothing here but the radiator. Could that have some part to twist off these bolts? I can see instantly that it doesn’t.

The closest thing I have to a spanner is my own fingers. And I’ve already proved they’ll give way before the bolts do. Then an idea occurs. Maybe I can use the dress I’m wearing.

W
ithout hesitation I slip it off so that I’m down to my underwear. I shiver in the cold but it doesn’t slow me for a moment. Carefully I wrap my dress around the bolt, and yank at the fixture.

At first I think the dress will work. It seems to have some purchase on the bolt as I tug. But then the smooth fabric slips and tears.

Damn.

I try again but the same thing happens. There’s not enough friction between my dress and the bolt to twist it off.

I breathe out, fighting down the sense of hopelessness. There must be something in here to help me. Desperately I scan the empty basement again.

This time my eyes come to rest on the bottle of
water which the man left me. It’s still half full.

Hmmmmm
.

A plan is forming. If I soak my dress in water, maybe, just maybe, it will generate enough friction to turn the bolt.

Still shivering in my underwear I grab the water. It’s worth a shot.

My legs are back to normal now as I race to the window, soaking the dress as I go. Then I wrap the sopping fabric over the bolt
and heave.

Nothing happens. But I won’t give up.
I’m sure the water is helping give me a better grip. I secure the wet fabric tighter and heave again. And this time I feel something shift.

Yes!

I pull again and the bolt gives way. It’s properly loose now and I abandon the dress and unscrew the last of it with my fingers. As the bolt comes free I send up a silent prayer of thanks.

I can do this!
I can get out.

The other bolts follow like the first. And when they’ve all been removed, I yank at the bars. They resist at first. Then, in a shower of rust and dirt, the whole section of bars comes free, almost knocking me to the floor with the weight of it.

Careful Summer. Don’t make any noise.

It takes every ounce of strength to hold onto the heavy bars and lay them silently on the concrete floor. Then all that stands between
me and escape is a mouldering old window.

As an afterthought, I put on my soaking wet dress. It’s ripped and covered in rust stains. But better than venturing out in my underwear I guess.

The window is small but I know I can fit through. I push up the stiff old catch and then the tiny window is open. I can’t see much of what’s on the other side but it seems to be an alley.

Quickly I heave myself by my hands onto the frame, so my top half is sticking through the window. Immediately I’m greeted by the rank smell of trashcans. But I don’t care. To me it smells like freedom.

I wriggle through the window with difficulty and at one point my hips stick. I force them back and forth, wincing as the tight window frame cuts a gash into my side. Then with one last shove I plunge face first through the window. Grappling onto the dirty concrete floor of the alley, I drag myself fully outside.

Then I get to my feet, hardly able to believe what just happened.

I escaped! I just escaped from the basement!

I’ve got a nasty gash
in my side from wedging myself through the window. My hands are bloody and my dress is filthy and soaking wet. But I made it.

Then a rush of dizziness hits me
and I’m suddenly unsteady on my feet. I take a moment, leaning against the side of the alley.

Whoa. I guess
the drugs they gave me haven’t fully worn off.

I feel woozy, like I’m falling. Gritting my teeth I force myself to look for an exit. There’s a gate at one end of the
alley which seems to lead to a street. Stumbling I make towards it.

There’s a
latch which I press down, falling forward as the door swings open. And then I’m out on an ordinary looking London street.

I shake my head, trying to cast away the muzzy feeling.
I take a few deep breaths. Fresh air. That’s what I need. I feel my head clearing slightly.

Ok. What next?

Should I flag down a car? I move towards the road, my legs leaden. I pause for a second, fighting away another little burst of dizziness. To my relief it seems to be passing.

‘
Summer?’ A familiar Australian accent sounds from somewhere. I turn in the direction of the voice.

Jenny! It’s Jenny Grogan.

My eyes fix on her. She’s walking towards the house. Her perfectly coiffed hair has never looked so good.

‘
Jenny!’ I’m so relieved to see her, my voice sounds in a sob.

‘
What are you doing here?’ Jenny is walking towards me, sounding concerned. I am vaguely aware that I’m wearing a filthy torn dress and a spaced out expression.

‘
This is Scandelous’s mentor house,’ continues Jenny. ‘You’re not allowed to be here.’

I almost laugh at her suggestion. Right no
w, the last thing on my mind is breaking the rules. But the facts are sliding into place. Scandelous. It must have been Keisha’s voice I heard.

‘
I need to call Adam,’ I say, voicing the only thing I can think to say.

Jenny has closed on me now. She takes my arm, frowning with concern.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Come inside and we’ll call him.’

I shake my head quickly.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t go in there. Scandelous… They tried to kidnap me.’

‘
Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Jenny. ‘You’re not in any danger. Come with me and we’ll sort this out.’

Her grip on my arm is like iron now.

‘No!’ I try to yank my arm free. ‘Jenny no! I won’t go inside!’

But Jenny is dragging me forward by force.

What’s going on?

‘
There’s no point in resisting,’ says Jenny. Her voice comes out in a hiss. And I realise through my slightly foggy state that her accent has changed.

Jenny is
Australian. Why is she speaking with a London accent?

Then
I realise there’s something sharp digging into my side.

She’s got a gun.

My whole world seems to do a flip.

Jenny. It was Jenny who was behind this whole thing.

It was her voice I heard when I first came to this house. And now she’s dragging me back inside.