"Adela."
I put everything into that one word –– the warning, the command, the tone that has always made her pause.
But it doesn’t work.
I hear the front door open.
Shit.
It closes.
“Adela!”
I breathe, and then I’m pulling at the fucking rope tied around my wrists. It doesn’t pull free.
“Fuck!”
I don’t hear my car. She’s on foot. I tug my left hand free, kicking my feet and trying to get free.
She'll come back.
It’s fucking cold outside.
She has to come back.
I work the right knot. It's waxed over. She was thorough with it in a way I'll be impressed by later, when I'm not furious. I try again. The rope is embedded. I shift my angle and try a third time, and I get one finger through a gap. I work it slowly while I listen for my engine to start.
It doesn't start.
Good.
My right hand comes free.
Then my ankles. Thirty seconds total, and I'm off the bed with the blindfold gone and my clothes in my hands.
I get to the door and fly it open.
"Adela!"
It’s dark outside. Shit! The property stretches out in front of me — the gravel drive, the tree line, there’s nowhere to run and hide. My voice goes out and comes back without an answer.
She's not running down the driveway.
I pull my shirt over my head, get my jeans on, and shove my feet into my shoes. I'm down the porch steps and into the dark.
"Adela!"
Nothing.
I run down the driveway and look both ways. I search the trees. I can’t fucking see a thing.
"Fuck!"
The word comes out of me at full volume into the empty night and doesn't help anything.
I run back up the driveway.
She's fast. I know she's fast. She ran cross-country in high school.
