Dread began to build in Gavin’s stomach, and he climbed the rest of the stairs quickly, his eyes on the bedroom doorway at the end of the hall, ears still straining to hear anything.
There was a duffel bag in his closet, and Gavin thought briefly of filling it with clothes and toiletries and other things before trying to flee, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. The only reason House hadn’t snapped was because Gavin hadn’t tried to run.
He sat on his bed, picked up his sketchbook and a short stick of charcoal, struggling to look calm and relaxed. How did he do this? How did he search House for his mother when it could see every single move he made? He’d never seen House look this way—dark and dead and sinister. Was there really any way to fool it?
Gavin remembered the mornings he’d been grounded, how the doorknobs had vanished from the front doors, the latches had been removed from the windows. Delilah swore House morphed and physically transformed the night she came over for dinner. Was it possible there were parts of House he didn’t even know were there?
Spotting an old box on a shelf in his room, Gavin took down a model airplane he’d never finished and muttered something about finding glue. He was able to rifle through old drawers, peer into cabinets he hadn’t opened in ages, even check under couch cushions and beds. House even seemed happy to help, moving furniture out of his way and opening cupboards for him. He opened every closet, dragged casual fingertips down walls as he passed, feeling for any edges or bumps that shouldn’t be there.
He found a bunch of old bottles of migraine medication that must have belonged to his mother, but no glue and no hidden rooms.
With two hours to go before he was meant to meet Delilah, Gavin had pretty much given up hope of finding anything.
He climbed the stairs again and headed back into his room, stopping dead in his tracks when he crossed to the bed. There, in the center of his perfectly straightened comforter, was the photo of his mom that he kept taped inside the bathroom drawer.
House knew all along what he was looking for.
The air cooled, the room darkening as if the sun had tucked itself behind the clouds, hiding. Pinpricks of sweat broke out along his skin, and he felt gooseflesh rise along his arms, his legs, the back of his neck.
Outside in the distance he could see blue sky and the leaves of trees fluttering in the breeze, but close to House, everything felt dark. The yard was cast beneath a shadow. Wind whipped through the dead branches of his favorite cherry tree.
There was a sound in the hallway behind him. Not footsteps, a growl. It was a sound that could come only from the belly of a beast—low and angry—vibrating along the boards below his bedroom and climbing up the walls. The tremor went higher and higher, like a shiver passing through the entire house.
Gavin closed his eyes, visualized the stairs and how many steps it would take to get there.
If he ran, he knew Bed might move and he would have to jump. Dresser might try to block the doorway. The hallway was clear, but Table was fast and could block any door it wanted. It would try to slow him down, trip him, knock him down the stairs if it had to.
Oh God.
Gavin tried to push the thought of this type of physical battle from his head, but he couldn’t. He closed his eyes again and could see the image of him there, at the bottom of the stairs, limbs bent at grotesque right angles, neck turned oddly, eyes open and glassy. Would House prefer that Gavin died, because then he would never leave? The air left his lungs in a rush, and he moved to cover his mouth, swallowing the rise of bile in his throat. This wasn’t House being frustrated or wounded. For the first time in his life, Gavin knew that House was prepared to do whatever it took to keep him there.
It never had any intention of letting me leave.
He eyed his bedroom windows, covered with heavy curtains that could easily snare and trap him. He looked directly across the hall, into the open bathroom and the window he’d left wedged open with a block of wood.