Page 16 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

At this rate, she was going to give herself a heart attack before she ever got what she wanted out of me.

With another, quieter, whimper, she moved across the couch, burying her face in the back cushions, her legs rocking harder and harder with each passing moment.

I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her for a while, so I turned back to the table, staring at the takeaway bag like I could will it closer and into my mouth.

But there was no way of getting to it without exposing myself. And right now, I had the upper hand. I wanted to keep it unless something went really south very quickly.

When the occasional little whimpering sounds ceased, I shifted to look over at my captor again. She was still on her side on the couch, but her body was still, her breathing slow and even.

Like she’d panicked herself to exhaustion.

Though, judging by how revved up she’d been when she came in, her body had probably been running on fumes for days. Or longer. The actual event being completed—sort of—was what her body needed to finally give in to the need for sleep.

I scooted the chair, making sure it dragged noisily across the floor. I stood and slammed the legs back down.

She didn’t even jerk in her sleep.

Well then.

I slid my hands out of the cuffs, carefully pulled the duct tape off my mouth, then lifted the chair so my “zip-tied” legs were freed.

Finished, I carefully unpacked my dinner, popping it into the microwave, then sitting down to eat while my captor got her rest on the couch.

When I finished and she still hadn’t stirred, I cleaned up and re-set the table, then curled the bag back up like it had been before I removed the food.

I went ahead and took myself to the bathroom, had some coffee, brushed my teeth, and took out the trash she’d gotten sick in.

And fuck if I didn’t get more and more amused with each passing minute.

I mean, really, what a fucking story I’d have to tell at the next family dinner. Me, who never had anything to contribute unless someone wanted to discuss books or a documentary they saw. Now I got to tell them that I got taken hostage by someone who didn’t secure me properly, threw up at the idea of torture, then had a panic attack and fell asleep on my couch.

I was actually smiling about it as I slid the door locks—no reason to risk someone else coming in and holding both of us hostage—then walked over to her backpack to get a better idea of her plan.

Inside, there were more zip ties, some rope, the roll of duct tape, and a phone.

Another amateur move. You never took your fucking cell phone to a crime scene.

It wasn’t even locked, and when I opened it, the call log was all to one number.

My old burner.

The one I tossed a few weeks back.

The calls went back months. But there was a big log of them for the past few days. Endless loops of calls. Like a crazy ex-girlfriend level of calls.

Huh.

Interesting.

I set that back in the bag and reached instead for the gun.

This time, there was no stopping it.

The laugh bubbled up and burst out.

Because she didn’t have a fucking gun. Not a real one, anyway.

My best guess was it was a damn Airsoft gun where they’d filed down the orange tip and colored it in with a permanent marker.