Too long. Way too long. The driver won't have time to read a novel. Besides, too many details might make him think it's a prank.
I cross it out and start again.
"Help. I'm being held captive. Please call police."
I stare at it. God, that's pathetic.
I cross it out again, hand shaking.
"Help. Being held captive. Call police."
Short. Simple. Urgent. The driver can read it in two seconds and make a decision.
I fold it small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Small enough to pass quickly without drawing attention.
My hands sweat as I wait.
Twenty minutes until delivery.
Do I really want to do this? Last night I felt safe. This morning I woke up satisfied. I've spent the day drawing fantasies I want to happen.
But this is still captivity. This is still wrong. And any sane person would use this opportunity to escape.
Right?
Ten minutes.
The buzzer sounds, and my heart nearly stops.
Pyotr's voice sounds through the intercom. "Yes?"
"Delivery."
"Come up."
I position myself by the guest room door, cracked open justenough to see. The note remains clutched in my sweaty palm. My pulse hammers in my ears.
The elevator dings. Footsteps. A man appears—an Asian guy, maybe early-twenties, tattoos on his neck, looking tired and annoyed. Nothing like his photo on the app. Weird.
He hands Pyotr the bag. They exchange a few words I can't hear. Pyotr pays, tips, and starts to close the door.
It's now or never.
I bolt into the hallway. "Wait?—"
Both men turn.
"I—uh—I wanted to make sure you got the spring rolls?" My voice comes out higher than normal. "They forget them sometimes."
The delivery guy looks confused. "Yeah, it's all here."
I move closer, like I'm checking the bag. My hand brushes his. The note transfers from my palm to his pocket in one smooth motion.
"Thanks," I manage. "Sorry. I'm just really hungry."
He shrugs, already turning to leave. "No problem, darling."
Darling? Really?
