Damn.
Now I had an audience; my plans shifted slightly.
Be patient.
She’d grow cocky again and send the brother away. And when she did...
Playing along, for now, I moved toward the table. “What are you going to do?”
She didn’t reply as she shuffled toward a chair, dragged it closer to the bench, and perched on the padded seat. “What do you think, you stupid girl? You’re carrying our money. I want those diamonds. Your arm is currently worth more than your entire family history.”
“I don’t believe that. My family earned its wealth through skill and hard work. Weaving and sewing for dukes and duchesses. We didn’t lower ourselvesto smuggling stones and calling it hard work.”
She spluttered. “Soon that tongue of yours will no longer be attached.”
“Why? You plan on cutting that off along with my head?”
She smiled coldly. “Such a temper.”
I smirked back. “I’ve learned from the best.”
I would never bow to her again.Never.
Bonnie huffed, busying herself with an attachment for the small power tool. “Stand here.”
Looking over my shoulder, I calculated how much time I would have before the brother managed to stop me. If I slashed her throat with a pair of scissors, would I have enough seconds or not?
Mulling the problem of murder, I moved to where she pointed.
“Don’t move.”
I didn’t move; too consumed with my own ideas to care about hers.
Bonnie grabbed the Dremel in shaking, arthritic hands and switched on the battery-operated machine. A loud buzzing filled the room as she ordered me to remove my sling and place the cast on the table.
The ache in the broken bone had faded a little, or maybe my body had become fed up with letting me know it was hurt. Either way, I did as she asked. Obeying for now—purely biding my time.
How should I do it?
Cutting shears to her jugular?
A fire poker to her heart?
My fingers around her throat, strangling,strangling?
I flinched as the sharp teeth of the Dremel chewed through the cast, removing the heat and itch. It didn’t take long for Bonnie to slice from wrist to elbow. Her hands shook, trying to pincer it open—her age not granting enough power to break the mould.
“Open it,” she commanded, growing weary. A sheen of sweat covered her brow, a grey tinge painting her skin.
My heart skipped to see her struggling. Her heartbeats were numbered. My mind started a countdown.
One beat.
Two beats.
Three beats.
Four.
