Greer
Time’s passed since Helms left both of us here cuffed. The girl won’t speak to me, which I think will be crucial for us getting out of here, because she’s been here longer and will know more about his temperament and what we’re in for.
Over the last hour, I’ve worked the small gun out of my boot, the only place Helms didn’t check on his perusal of my body after coming back in the room earlier.
It was as if he had remembered he hadn’t done his due diligence. Makes me wonder if that’s how he is as a cop, too.
The girl’s got her eyes on me, boring a hole through my cheek as I work my cuffed hands, my hip burning at the angle I have to have my leg at to get inside my boot.
“Fuck,” I groan, stretching my leg back out in relief.
“I’m Greer, by the way. I don’t know if it matters to you to be on a first-name basis, but if we’re going to die down here, we should at least know one another, I guess,” I spout, curling my leg back up to wiggle my hands back down inside of my boot.
Though it’s likely the reason Helms didn’t check them.
“I’m Charlotte.”
I nod, biting my lower lip as I try to get my laces undone. Curse Koen for telling me to keep them tightly bound for safety.
“Well, Charlotte, if I ever get this gun free, I’m going to get us out of here. I need you to close your eyes and cover your ears the best you can when you see me aim, alright?”
“You have a gun?” she breathes, sitting straighter on the bed.
“I do.”
“He’ll hurt us really bad if you don’t kill him,” Charlotte says as if she doesn’t believe that I have the balls.
I bite the inside of my cheek, apprehension curling in my veins like thick, black smoke. “How old are you, Charlotte?”
“Eleven.”
I swallow, too young to see a man die, but also too young to be the captive of one.
“You shouldn’t be caught up in this. All of this is adult business, and I’m so sorry you’re in the middle, but some adults are…” Words fail me, and I sigh.
My fingertips rest on the warm metal of the gun in my boot that’s steady and comforting, promising an end to this for Charlotte, and that whatever she’s endured doesn’t become my life, too.
“Stupid assholes,” Charlotte finishes for me.
Despite our situation, I laugh. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Just do as you’re told when you see me pull the gun, okay?” I whisper, not knowing if he has audio in the room, but it’s too late to worry about that because I’ve already said too much.
Charlotte nods, some confidence etching onto her face that I can get us out of this.
I don’t know that I will, but pride expands in my chest that I gave her some solace.
I finally worm the gun free and place it beneath my right leg. It’ll still be a fight to get it free with Helms in the room, but it’s the best shot we have.
“What grade are you in?” I ask her when I sense the tension reforming in the air between us, the longer we sit in uncomfortable, ringing silence.
“Fifth,” she says shakily.
“Almost to middle school,” I reply.
The conversation may seem nonsensical given our current situation, but kids need distraction, even in the form of mundane conversation.
“I’m excited for middle school. Dad says he’ll let me have a phone because I’ll be riding the bus next year.”
