I seize the mild expression of interest and start babbling. “There are men he used to work for. He still… I don’t know… owes them, I guess. They came to me and said—”
“Highway Rangers’ men?”
When I meet his gaze, my heart leaps. He knows something. He’s listening. I can’t waste this precious gift. “That’s right. They said if I didn’t visit him today, they’d—”
“Can I have your belt?”
It’s mostly for decoration, though it helps nip in the waist of my dress. I unbuckle it, sliding it out of the stays and handing it across.
“Like I said, if I don’t—”
He grabs hold of my upper arms, moving me back a few steps into a waiting chair.
“No!” I lurch to the side, tugging my right arm free. “Please listen. You have to—”
One hand goes over my mouth, the other cupping my head to hold it steady. He crouches, eyes level. They drill into mine with such intensity I wouldn’t be able to finish the sentence even if he released his grip.
“I’m going to secure you to the chair, okay?”
No. Not fucking okay.
I nod, tears spilling out like drowning him is my only defence.
“If you don’t stop talking, I’ll tape your mouth shut. Understand?”
I nod again. My nose is so stuffy I can barely breathe. If he muzzles me, I might suffocate before I can plead my case. My son’s case.
Malakai relaxes, then stands and secures my arms behind my back, weaving the thin belt through the slats in the chair, then buckling it around my wrists.
“I’m fetching your bag from the car. Then we’ll talk about what happens next.”
He’s gone before I can formulate a reply. I bite the inside of my cheek, tipping my head back to drain my tears.
Stay strong. That’s what I need to do. If I’m going to get out the other side of this, I need to keep my wits about me and time my pleas, so he listens and understands.
Whether he’ll care is beyond my control.
My hands worry at the bonds, exploring their range of motion. The stiff patent pleather isn’t designed for tight knots. In a few seconds, it’s loosening.
My back straightens guiltily as he comes back inside, my handbag dangling from one hand, car keys in the other.
He tips the contents onto the table, scattering them for easy inspection.
My smart phone gets pushed to the side. My wallet gets a quick investigation, and the cash gets pushed into a separate pile. He stares at my credit cards for a long time while I shift in my seat, wrists gaining more freedom with each subtle tug.
“They’re over the limit,” I venture. “I wouldn’t.”
He grunts and replaces them, surveying the tatty receipts, loose change, and collection of non-working pens from the depths of my bag before sweeping it all back inside, placing it at my feet. Then he walks out of the room with my phone.
I tilt my head, concentrating on the sounds of his movement. There’s running water, a long sigh, a quick set of beeps as he dials a number, then a muffled conversation.
When he returns to the room, he pops the back off my smart phone and flicks out the battery, then pulls out the sim and breaks it between his fingers, drowning the remnants in the sink.
One last tug, ignoring the vicious cut of the stiff band, and my hands are free.
Now what?
I get halfway to standing before he clocks my movement. His mouth twists into a grimace, then he picks me up, grabbing the string and scissors on the way past, carrying me through to a bedroom where he tosses me onto the bare mattress.
