Page 91 of Liar

“Good.” I nod. “Where do we go from here?”

Jaxon points over my shoulder while turning on the flashlight app on his phone.

“Malcolm? Are you okay to walk?” I ask.

Malcolm rubs at the scruff on his face. “My neck burns like a motherfucker, but I’ll be okay.”

I nod again. Apparently, it’s a nervous tic I’ve acquired.

“Are you all right?” he asks me.

“I wasn’t hurt.”

“I meant over what was said,” Malcolm corrects softly.

“I’m not sure.” Meanwhile, the cruel cackle in my head continues. You were never good enough. You’re the product of evil. Damion’s sick creation. You’re nothing to Thorne.

Jaxon comes between us. “Look, I completely understand the need to figure your shit out, but not now, yeah? We have to get aboveground before the rest do.”

I’m only too happy to comply. Jaxon leads the way, warning us of sharp right and left turns. This isn’t like the passageways I’m used to with a straight point A to point B. Without Jaxon, we’d be seriously stuck.

Or, not quite.

I sneak some glances at Malcolm, both checking on him and wondering how familiar he is with these tunnels and secrets and lies. He was one of them for a long time. Jaxon still is. I can’t lower my guard even though my worst nightmare has come true.

I was never wanted.

It takes some time to navigate through the darkness. Jaxon’s phone is the one light we have, silhouetting the craggy walls and skittering, fuzzy forms like a scene from a horror movie. Malcolm only has his pants, and I have no idea where my phone is—maybe on the roof, in a tree, or in Thorne’s car. I’m glad not to have it since that’s likely a way the Briars could track me.

Thorne.

His name scrapes against the last section of vulnerability I have left. I feel naked when I think of him, no longer in a good way. Like all my parts were exposed, including the soft muscle of my heart. Still, he kept the truth from me. Always, he’s wanted power over me.

Not anymore.

Jaxon murmurs something about a trapdoor within the forest surrounding Winthorpe. His flashlight bounces over a metal ladder embedded into the rockface that’s seen much better days.

“Will it hold?” Malcolm asks.

“It has to.” Jaxon jerks his chin at me. “Ladies first.”

“Here.” Malcolm cups my elbow. “I’ll help.”

His touch is more painful than I could’ve imagined, as if he’s transferring all his suffering, every image of torture, and all moments of enduring rage until it was snuffed out by Damion.

“I can do it.” I pull out of his hold.

And just like that, I return the pain. He grimaces with it but steps back.

The steps are slippery with damp, mildewy-smelling substances. Touching the metal instantly freezes my fingers. Ignoring it, I climb, my shoes skidding with a noisy shriek once or twice. At the top, I raise an arm over my head and push against the flat wooden surface. It gives much easier than I predicted, and I pop my head out before thinking.

“Get down!” Jaxon whispers furiously.

“Sorry!” I say and turtle back into the hole.

I look down to see Jaxon nudging Malcolm up next. Once Malcolm hits the middle of the ladder, Jaxon goes next.

“All clear?” he asks me.