But a bag, that took someone with ice in their veins.
It took a long time to suffocate someone.
Movies made it look fast.
A plot device because the reality was grim and uncomfortable.
It took a good six to ten minutes to suffocate someone to death.
The movies showed the first forty-five seconds of it. While the blood started to flood with carbon dioxide, forcing it to panic, thrash, fight.
But in the movies, that was where it all ended.
In reality, it took about two minutes for the body to slip into unconsciousness, but the body could still thrash. And then from there, you had to stand there holding the bag for another four to six minutes.
You would literally be standing there holding a bag over someone’s head for ten minutes.
Ten minutes.
Thinking the whole time because this was not a crime of passion, an impulsive, angry decision. He’d just be standing there, taking Jules’ life while he, what, thought about what he was going to have to drink afterward?
He was going to calmly, coldly, determinedly steal Jules’ life from her.
Steal her from me.
Not on my fucking watch.
Before I could think more on it, my hand went to the knob, turning it without even thinking to, and charging inside.
Not-Gary’s head snapped in my direction. But even as the surprise registered, I was plowing into him, body wedged low, shoulder taking him in the gut, knocking him back onto his back on the unyielding tile floor.
From there, there were no thoughts.
Just actions.
Blows.
Taking some.
Giving more.
Until I became aware of the open bleeding of my knuckles, the pain in my fingers, the fact that I was just bashing in a face attached to an unconscious body.
Not wanting to take any chances, I dug through his bag, finding rope, taking a moment to truss him up like a pig, finding – predictably at this point – duct tape in the bag as well, putting some over his mouth.
I would worry about him later.
I had to worry about Jules now.
Grabbing the hurricane lantern, I moved through the house, checking the rooms one by one, finding nothing but a mess in the first-floor bathroom, the tubing pulled out of the wall, water pooled on the floor.
I almost missed it in my rush to locate her.
But as I turned to head out the door, the light caught the red.
Blood.
Jules’ blood.
My stomach tensed as I tore through the upstairs, panic welling up more and more by the minute.
Nothing.
There was nothing upstairs.
Nothing downstairs.
I stopped mid-stride as I went to double-check the main floor rooms again.
The basement.
She had to be in the basement.
I opened closet doors, looking for the stairs, finding nothing.
Until I was back in the kitchen, pulling open what appeared to be a pantry. Oddly, the floor leading to it was a thick sheet of wood. With a pull handle.
Curious, I reached to pull it up, finding there was a lever attached to the wall to pin the door up so you could descend.
To the basement.
There was a cautious surge of relief in seeing it, but the bigger part of me knew not to get too excited, knew there could be bad news below. Or no news at all.
My footsteps sounded thundering as I rushed down, lantern lifted, swinging it around into the dark space, not able to breathe at all.
Then I heard a scraping. Like something scratching against the cinderblock walls.
My arm swung out, thrusting the lantern in that direction, feeling my heartbeat skitter into overdrive as I saw a shadow. And then a figure.
Jules.
In my mind, I said it out loud.
But I guess I didn’t.
And I guess the lantern cast me in shadow.
Because as I got close, I felt something swing and land across my center, knocking my breath right out of me.
“Jules.”
That time I did say it aloud, hearing a gasp of inward breath followed by a weak voice. “Kai?”
I lowered the lantern as I closed the last step, going downward into a squat.
“It’s me, honey,” I confirmed, taking my first real, deep breath before using the lantern to check her out.
Her nose had a bit of dried blood under it. Not enough to worry it was broken. There were shadows under her eyes that would easily turn to black eyes in just an hour or so. Her eyes were small and pained, likely from the blow from behind, the one that had knocked her out.
She was drenched, her hair wet, her dress plastered to her.
And, what was likely bothering her most of all, she was filthy.
The dirt floor and her wetness had made a mess of every inch of skin. There were swirls in it where she had seemed to try to wipe it off. To no avail.
When my gaze when back to her face, I saw her eyes fill. Her lip quiver.
I put the lantern down beside her, reaching into my pocket, dialing without thinking.