I tug on my arms, but he’s tied me so tightly there’s no way I would ever get free, even if he left me here alone. I’d die in this chair.
Pete grabs the gun from the counter and paces out of the kitchen and into the living room. “That bitch better fucking get her ass here if she knows what’s good for her,” he grumbles.
I try to make sense of his words. I don’t think I’m the bitch in that statement. Someone else is. Did he send my picture to lure someone else to the house? A woman? What the fuck? I don’t get it.
I look around, taking in my surroundings. It’s an ordinary house. Nothing special. He’s not rich by any stretch of the imagination. Who did you text, Pete…?
He paces back toward me. “You better hope my fucking wife is paying attention to her phone and gets her ass home in two hours. If not, you’re dead.”
I stare at him, not blinking. His wife?
My heart races. I’m at the mercy of another woman? He probably beat her and she left him, and now he’s using me to get her to come back. If I were her, I’d ignore his text and never return. Maybe she’ll call the police, though? There’s a chance. Or maybe she’ll never even see the text.
Calling the police would cause me more problems than it’s worth. I’d rather take my chances without their involvement.
I’m going to die. Today. In this fucking asshole’s kitchen.
Because I have bad fucking luck. I should have stayed where I was yesterday, waited another day before moving.
I try to put myself in his wife’s shoes. What if my fucking ex sent me a text showing me that he had a woman tied up in his kitchen and threatened to kill her if I didn’t come back?
I don’t have to wonder what his wife is thinking right now because I am that woman. This could happen to me. Would I trade my life for a stranger’s?
I do know I wouldn’t call the police. Ha. The man I’m hiding from is the police.
Chapter Two
Eloise
* * *
Two hours…
I have no idea how long it’s been since that clock started. Seems like six hours, but I know that’s not true based on how high the sun is.
Pete keeps pacing. That’s all he does. Pace, mumble, swing that gun around, and glance at his phone. I have to assume his wife has not responded to his text. That means nothing.
There are so many possibilities. She could be on her way here now. She could have ignored his text and thrown her phone in the river. Perhaps she never saw the text at all.
Quite frankly, the worst possibility is that she called the cops and they’re about to storm into this house and save me. I’d rather take a bullet to the head than be rescued by the police. That’s a fate worse than death.
I’m scared out of my fucking mind. My thoughts are all over the place. Now that time has gone by and I’ve had a chance to think, I’m beginning to hope the clock runs out and no one shows up. I wouldn’t wish for his wife to trade her life for mine. Not in a million years. She left him for a reason. He’s an unhinged lunatic.
Just because the time is up, it doesn’t necessarily mean he will kill me. He tied me to this chair to stage my predicament for his wife. He might have lied to her and me about killing me.
I really don’t want to die today. But I’m also tired. I’ve been on the run for six months. It’s no way to live. My money ran out a long time ago. I never stay anywhere very long. I find jobs in places like diners, work for a few weeks until I build up some cash, and then take off for the next town.
I’m exhausted. I’m out of steam and ideas. Living on the run is harder than I imagined. When I escaped my hellacious life, all I could think about was lying low and staying under the radar. All I did was trade one problem for another. Now I can’t sleep because I have to keep one eye open and look over my shoulder.
No matter what town I’m in or what diner I’m working at, I flinch every time the door opens, a cold sweat breaking out on my skin as I look at the door to make sure no one has found me.
It’s not rational. No one knows where I am. I took very little with me. The clothes on my back, a few dollars, and a backpack that contains my few mementos. When I got away, I was lucky. Someone helped me get to the bus station. I bought my ticket with cash and headed as far away as possible. Seattle. When I arrived, I bought my car at a used dealership, and I’ve been holding it together with duct tape ever since.
Ha. Duct tape. That’s what’s keeping me from telling this asshole to go fuck himself. I’d almost like to beg him to shoot me and put me out of my misery.
But I’m not quite that desperate yet. I want to live. I pull my shoulders back and stare at Pete. Maybe that’s not even his real name, but it’s all I have.
I flinch when he looks at his phone again and cusses. He lifts his head to look at me and narrows his gaze. “You bitches are all the same. You think you’re so fucking important, but you’re not. You’re just cunts who don’t know your place. Can’t even keep the fucking house clean and get dinner on the table on time.”
