Page 85 of Spock’s Snare

Relief floods through me so powerfully that tears sting my eyes. I’m exhausted and in pain. I want to curl up into a ball, but I can’t. I know Blackwood will come back, and if he finds me like this, I don’t know what he’ll do.

I push myself upright, biting the inside of my cheek as pain tears through my abdomen and face. The room tilts, forcing me to close my eyes until the dizziness passes.

My ankles remain secured to the foot of the bed, each one bound separately. I shift toward them, dragging the tray with me so the shard doesn’t disappear into the sheets if I drop it.

The first rope takes longer than I expect. My hands are trembling, and I have to stop twice when footsteps seem to echo somewhere beyond the room.

Each time, I hold perfectly still and listen.

Each time, I hear nothing more.

The rope around my right ankle finally splits. I pull my leg free and turn to the left. This knot is tighter, but the rope is already worn where I’ve struggled against it. The shard cuts through the damaged fibers.

The instant it parts, I shove the rope away.

I’m free.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my bare feet on the carpet. Pins and needles stab through my soles. My knees buckle when I try to stand, and I catch myself on the mattress.

“Easy,” I whisper.

I remain bent over until the room stops spinning. Then I straighten slowly, one painful inch at a time.

Standing hurts. So does breathing.

Every part of me feels battered and weak, but I’m no longer tied to the bed. As I stand in the middle of the room, I rub my hands together to restore feeling to my swollen fingers. Then I bend carefully to massage my ankles. I study my surroundings as my circulation returns.

Getting free from my bindings was only the first step. Now I have to figure out how to get the hell out of this room.

My gaze settles on the bedroom door.

It’s the most obvious route. I could cross the room, turn the handle, and see if Blackwood left it unlocked. If it opens, I might be able to slip through the house and reach an exterior door.

But I have no idea what waits on the other side.

Blackwood could be standing in the hallway. He could be sitting in a nearby room, listening for me. The floor might creak. The exterior doors might be locked. Even if I make it outside, I don’t know where he brought me or how far I’ll have to run before I find help.

Trying the door means stepping into his territory blind. I can’t afford to make a mistake and remain in this prison.

So, I shift my attention to the window.

The blinds are closed, but daylight glows around the edges. I’m not in a basement. That alone gives me a sliver of hope.

I shuffle toward it, moving slowly because my feet still tingle and my knees threaten to buckle. The glass shard remains clenched in my hand. It’s a pathetic weapon, but it’s all I have.

When I reach the window, I stand to the side rather than directly in front of it. I slide two fingers between the slats and lift one just enough to peer outside.

An unkempt backyard stretches beyond the glass. The grass is tall and choked with weeds. Dead leaves have gathered around a rusted metal shed near the back fence. A few battered lawn chairs lie overturned beside a firepit filled with rainwater and trash.

There is no sign of life in the backyard; that’s all that matters.

Examining the window frame, I'm relieved to see there are no bars or locks. It’s just a simple window. Relief nearly makes my legs give out.

I release the slat and find the cord. Holding the blinds steady with one hand, I draw them upward a few inches at a time. The mechanism clicks softly, and every tiny sound makes my pulse jump. Every few seconds, I stop and listen. Relieved when the house remains silent.

I raise the blinds the rest of the way and study the window latch. It’s old but ordinary. I turn it carefully and brace both hands beneath the frame.

When the window resists, panic flares. I push harder, but it doesn’t move. For one horrifying moment, I think Blackwood painted it shut or nailed it closed.