The beeps were not particularly loud. They were partially muted by design. And the noise was further muffled by the door to the kitchen and the distance from the door down the basement steps.
But they were still unmistakable to me because I’d heard them numerous times since our new kitchen had been installed.
The beeping was the sound of the buttons on the front of the microwave being pressed.
Four beeps, because whoever was using the microwave had probably selected a function and a power rating, then set the timer and punched Start.
The machine would be whirring away.
The light would have come on inside.
I couldn’t hear the whirring or see the light, but I knew with a searing intensity what it meant. I remembered what Donovan had said before.
Our phones were inside the microwave and if they were microwaved for more than a few seconds they could trigger a fire.
Nerves scattered across my back like hot sparks. My knees flexed.
You have to get out of here.
You have to get out of here right now.
I streaked up the stairs and tried the door. It didn’t open. It was held firmly shut by the bolt on the outside.
I pushed on the door. I banged on it with the heel of my hand.
‘Open this door! Let me out!’
There was no response.
I thumped on the door with my closed fist. I put my shoulder to it. Kicked it.
‘Sam? Donovan?’
Nothing.
I pushed myself back in frustration and stared at the door for a moment, imagining the bolt shunting back and the door opening, but it didn’t.
Spinning around, I hurried back down the stairs, turning at the bottom, marching towards the workbench and the pegboard of tools across the room.
The tools couldn’t have been down here with me before. I would have got out if they’d been down here with me then.
But things were different now.
I was different now.
I’d been on the other side of the door.
I’d seen the bolt that secured it. I knew exactly where it was.
When I reached the pegboard, I swiped a hand across my face, scanning the tools on offer.
After taking down a screwdriver and a chisel, I set the screwdriver aside and picked up a hammer instead.
The hammer had a thick rubberized handle, a shiny metal shaft, a dulled and oxidized metal head.
It was much bigger and weightier than the hammer I kept with my small box of tools in the attic for hanging pictures.
With the chisel in my left hand and the hammer in my right, I strode back to the stairs.
I got madder as I climbed, furious, tightening my grip around the chisel, already rehearsing in my own mind what I needed to do next. Because I’d learned so much, fixing this house. And now I knew how to break it.
But before I struck out, I stopped and pressed my ear to the door.
Had I done this before, too?
Listening for hints and sounds.
Listening for Sam.
At first being terrified of him approaching the door and coming down here.
Later, sickeningly, almost aching for it, wanting him to come.
I couldn’t hear steps or movement but I could hear other things.
The roar of the blood in my head.
The low bass whirr of the microwave.
Spitting.
Fizzing.
An electrical spluttering.
Wait.
The pegboard of tools wasn’t the only thing that had changed since Sam had held me down here.
And he hadn’t just had me redesign and redecorate his home.
He’d also had me oversee the tradesmen who’d carried out the work I couldn’t do myself.
Including the electricians who’d rewired the entire house.
When they’d installed the new electrical system, they’d recommended moving the location of the fuse box from a cupboard in the kitchen to a spot on the wall just inside the basement, close to where I was standing now.
I turned to it with a plummeting sensation, knowing what I was about to do and where it would leave me but knowing I needed to do it anyway.
Reaching up, I raised the hinged Perspex screen covering the fuses.
Paused.
Then I cut all the power to the house.