Tomorrow, I can go back to whimpering at the first sign of danger. Tonight, whoever the ‘her’is that they’re referencing needs me a lot more than I need to stay safe.
As I slide my arse along the linoleum tiles and lift my purse, another noise startles me. The slam of a door. The turn of a key. Then the sound of two pairs of footsteps moving up the stairs.
They’re going to my boss’s office.
I close my eyes. I mean, I know Sergio isn’t the greatest of men. At the very least, he’s a white-collar criminal. But a woman locked in the equipment shed while he entertains one of his gangster clients in his upstairs office?
That seems a stretch, even for him.
The upstairs door opens and stays that way.
Oh, good. Don’t make it too easy for me. Even though they’re farther away, they’ll still be alert for every sound.
My plan to use my phone disintegrates. I can’t talk to the police without them hearing. Speech is too distinct a sound, even whispering.
I also can’t leave. Not even to duck outside to make the call. Not with someone in imminent danger.
My bag is too bulky to cart around. I put my phone in my rear jeans pocket, and my house keys and wallet in my front. Then I get my feet under me, rocking from one side to the other to test my ankle. All good so far. I crab walk forward, my stomach twisting into a knotted ball of anxiety as I reach the doorway.
Light spills from the upstairs office. Although the angle isn’t great for viewing, I catch occasional glimpses of the top of the men’s heads in profile. I’d like to believe that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me, but I honestly can’t remember the view from the office window and don’t want to trust in a theory that might be catastrophically wrong.
Picking my moment instead, I wait until there’s a faint hum of discussion, then duck into the shadow of the rink enclosure, betting that if they’re talking, they’re more likely to be looking at one another.
That hides me from view until I round the back of the rink and have to venture along the side. The equipment room is halfway down, and I pat my fleece pocket to confirm the keyring is still there. At least that one thing is in my favour. I pull it out, cautiously flipping through the selection to find the right one and holding it ready.
As my ankle throbs, I realise I must take a leap of faith. There’s no way I’ll be able to get to the room, unlock it, and duck inside without exposing myself.
Any time might be the wrong time.
I either need to throw the dice and hope my luck holds or scurry out of the building and accept the guilt for not stopping whatever those men are up to.
Chewing the inside of my cheek ragged, I summon the last of my courage. In a spurt of action, I raise myself up to a crouch and run, bent over, for the equipment shed door.
The keys jangle and my jaw clenches so hard my teeth crunch against each other. But the men continue their chat, oblivious to what’s happening below.
I swing the door, duck inside, and press it closed while holding my breath as though that’ll help suppress the noise of the latch.
My heart beats so loudly, I can’t hear anything above the blood rushing through my ears. I move forward, not worrying that my limp rocks me from side to side. The walls offer me shelter, both visual and aural. All I have to do now is work out who or what they stashed inside here.
I’m looking for a full-grown woman. Maybe bound. Probably unconscious. It takes all of five seconds to work out she’s not there.
As my fear recedes, I can hear again. My breath sounds loud, but since I can’t hear the noise of the men talking, I guess they can’t hear my ragged inhalations.
No, not just mine.
A rustle of tarpaulin sounds from the corner of the room. There’s a cover there, meant to be pulled over the ice machine, but neither me nor Sergio ever bother to use it any longer.
I creep closer, my heart rate increasing once more.
A pair of terrified grey eyes peer at me from a crinkle in the fabric. Red rimmed and swollen from crying.
“Hey,” I whisper, raising a hand to wave. “You need a hand?”
A tumble of blonde curls and blue ruffles spills from the tarp. Before I can put together the whole picture, a tiny girl—five, six?—is clinging to my leg, her hug so tight it’ll leave bruises.
What the actual fuck?
“Shh,” I say as she whimpers. “Is that your daddy upstairs?”
