Well, things just got a whole lot shittier.
She let loose a sigh of almost-despair, hands on hips, her head hung low. Her brain was one step from accepting that she needed to come up with a plan to somehow attack a guard when he or she brought in food and water. A sudden wink of silver between her breasts caught her attention.
For their engagement, Guillermo had gifted her a solid silver crucifix. He claimed it was an heirloom from his abuela, but it was more likely something he stole off the dead body of some woman he or his men had raped and murdered as part of their cartel wars. It turned her stomach to even look at it, but he loved to see her wearing it, especially when he fucked her from behind and it swung beneath her, brushing back and forth along the sheets.
Despite its tainted origins, every night she prayed with that cross between her hands. Prayed for the soul of whomever that cross had belonged to. Prayed for forgiveness for being part of this man’s life, even if it was her job. Prayed not to be sent to hell for the depths she’d sunk to do that job. Prayed that one day soon she’d see Guillermo in handcuffs, on his knees in front ofher. Better yet, bruised, bloodied, or even dead by her hand for the things he’d done.
Time to pray again. This time for a miracle.
Taking the crucifix in hand, she sent up her plea, kissed the cross, then moved to the window. Gently, she ran her eyes along its edges, then her fingertips, searching for wires. Nothing. She braved easing her hands between the heavy curtain panels as low as possible to reach the bottom of the window. It refused to budge. No bars, no security system, but probably nailed shut because it didn’t move.
She grabbed the tail of her braid and brushed it back and forth across her lips—her thinking maneuver—as she contemplated her situation.
This didn’t make any sense.
Her thoughts jumbled. A product of whatever drug he’d used to keep her quiet for transport? She shook her head again, as if that would somehow clear the fog.
The practical side of her brain forged its way forward. Whether her current prison made sense or not, she needed to get out of here. She no longer had the luxury of waiting for full clarity.
She crossed on silent feet to the hallway door and put her ear to the seam. Still no noise. Two choices—the window or the door. Which was more likely to give her safe passage?
Biting her lip again, she flashed her eyes to the window. To get out that way, she’d need to break the glass, and there was no way to do that silently.
Nope. Door it was.
Ever so carefully, she wrapped her hand around the doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked.
Completing a survey of her surroundings, she found nothing useful to help her pick the lock. No exposed nail in the chair.No pictures on the wall, so no picture hangers. No hairpins lying around. A big fat zero.
Looking at the floor to focus her eyes, her attention caught once again on the crucifix she wore. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered to herself.
The cross was thin but long, and the T portion would give her fingers purchase on the metal. Quickly, she pulled it over her head. Crouching down, she looked into the keyhole and saw nothing but blackness. Her head reared back in disbelief.
Holy fuckballs! Guillermo’s men were trained better than this, so which idiot thought leaving the key in the lock was the smart thing to do? He should have at least taken it out of the lock and put it on top of the door ledge if he didn’t want to carry the fucking thing around.
She dashed to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Lining the bottom was a piece of butcher paper. She pulled the paper out of the drawer, then returned to the door, laid it flat on the floor, and slid it under the base.
Holding her breath, she froze. When no one appeared to react to the piece of paper sliding out into the hallway, she took the end of the crucifix and gently pushed it into the keyhole from her side. A tiny chink sounded from the other side of the door, muffled by the paper. Slowly and gently, she pulled the paper back.
Sitting on her haunches, she took a moment to absorb the iron key lying on the paper in front of her. When she convinced herself it wasn’t a mirage, she snatched it from the floor, inserted it into the lock on her side, turned it, and ever so slowly opened the door.
Nothing.
An empty hallway.
What the ever-loving fuck? There was no one here guarding her? In what alternate universe was that even a possible reality?
Guillermo was going to have a stroke if he ever realized how easy it was for her to escape.
And why wasn’t he here? There was only one thing more important to Guillermo than cartel business, and that was his Gigi. The man was obsessed with his pretty little American toy. Every day, he commented on how he couldn’t live without her. Was he not here because her betrayal had cut him so deeply that he couldn’t kill her himself?
If that explained his lack of presence, it did not explain the lack of Cesar’s. She shuddered. His second-in-command would have no such issues. Oh, he’d play with her first, and she’d wish for death before he granted it.
Best not to think about it. Even thinking his name just once might create a Beetlejuice scenario. No sense channeling her worst nightmare into reality.
The hallway was dimly lit by a wall sconce at the end, but there was no guard. All the doors to the rooms on this floor were open, and no sound emanated from any of them, which meant no snoring house sitters.
Downstairs, she could hear the television, men talking, and bottles clinking, so she wasn’t completely alone here. Maybe they thought that with her drugged and tied up, they didn’t have to keep their guard as heavy? That didn’t make sense either. Given that Guillermo knew her true intentions, he couldn’t possibly believe she wouldn’t try to escape. Why were the guards being so lackadaisical about this?
