I'm crying now, deep wracking sobs that shake my whole body.
The cuts on my stomach are still bleeding, small wounds that sting and burn.
But the pain barely registers.
All I can think about is the baby. RJ's baby. Our baby.
I never even got to tell him.
What if I never get the chance?
What if he finds out from someone else—from a coroner, from a blood test, from the evidence left behind?
The thought is unbearable.
This should be our moment.
Our joy.
The beginning of our family.
Not this. Not here. Not like this.
"I hope he makes it interesting," Solveig muses. "Thirty years is a long time to wait for revenge. I'd hate for it to be over too quickly."
Time passes. I don't know how much—the grandfather clock isn't working, and I have no way to track the minutes.
They stretch and blur, each one feeling like an eternity.
Solveig doesn't speak again, just stands at the window, watching.
Waiting. Occasionally her fingers trace the handle of the knife, almost lovingly.
The guards remain at their posts, silent sentinels.
One of them shifts his weight, and the floorboard creaks beneath him.
Another checks his weapon, the click of the safety loud in the quiet room.
They're professionals.
They know what's coming.
The light outside changes, shifting as the sun moves across the sky.
The shadows in the room lengthen, creeping across the faded wallpaper like dark fingers reaching for me.
I work at my bindings as subtly as I can, small movements that I hope won't draw attention.
But my wrists are slick with sweat and maybe blood from where I've been straining against the rope.
Every movement sends pain shooting up my arms.
The skin is raw, maybe bleeding. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting free.
But the rope isn't loosening.
If anything, it feels tighter.
