"Yeah," he says quietly. "I'm okay."
He's lying. I know he's lying. But before I can call him on it, we hear footsteps outside.
Heavy boots on the tile floor of the kitchen.
"Shit!" Rowdy hisses. "He's early. Get in the freezer. Now."
I scramble off the crate and lunge for the walk-in.
My heart is pumping so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, everywhere.
Rowdy follows me to the door. "Remember," he whispers, "wait for my signal."
I nod and step inside.
The cold hits me immediately, that familiar, bone-deep chill that makes my teeth ache.
Rowdy's hand shoots out and grabs my shoulder. "Ramsey," he sighs, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for wh—?"
The door slams shut.
I hear the latch click into place.
Then I hear something else: the scrape of metal on metal.
The clunk of something heavy being wedged against the door.
"Rd?" I call out, my voice already climbing toward panic. "Rowdy, what are you doing?"
No answer.
