I turned the bolt again and observed what happened to the washer and nut. When I could get the bolt to turn, the washer and nut were moving too. I tried holding the nut and turning the bolt, but all I got for my attempt was a rapidly deteriorating letter opener and a sore thumb.
Giving up wasn’t an option, though. I worked on that bolt without letting up. At one point, I stomped on the front of the futon frame as best I could, trying to break any part of it. All that got me was more wrist rash.
An hour passed. Two hours passed. I was sure that three hours had passed. I was running out of time.
Why hadn’t Wagner come in to kill me yet?
I collapsed on the futon in frustration. The tears welled up. This couldn’t be how my life ended.
My life was just turning around. The custody issues with Richard had finally been resolved. My practice was going great. I had some high paying clients who were helping my office thrive.
This all started when I stripped on amateur night at the Cherry Pie Gentleman’s Club. The one time I did something that was just for me, ended up with me handcuffed to a futon with a stinky mattress in an abandoned warehouse, soon to be put to death by a drug addict.Fuck my life.
I looked at my raw wrist and a small trail of blood running down the back of my hand. One thin piece of metal wrapped around my wrist and the other end around a much larger bar of metal. So thin, but so strong. I’d been trying to dismantle the bed frame with no success. If I only knew how to pick the lock on the handcuffs, I could escape.
I didn’t have a bobby pin. After examining the cuffs, I saw the lock was just a small hole at the base of the cuff. If I had something small, like a bobby pin, I could try. I opened the front drawer of the desk again. Pens, paper clips, post-it notes, a notepad. Wait.
I eyed the clips in the drawer like they might leap out and run away. While I had seen people pick the locks in movies, I had no idea what they did. They seemed to do it so easily. This might be my only hope.
I grabbed one of them from the drawer and straightened out one end so that I had a long piece of metal. I inserted it into the tiny lock hole and wiggled it around. Nothing.
Time slipped away. I could sense it. He would come for me at any time. Maybe my sense of time was off. I might have more time. What if he returned early?
I could feel panic creeping up on me like a cat hunting a mouse. The danger was palpable. I knew it was there, just like I knew Wagner was somewhere close. I couldn’t see it or him, though. The not knowing induced more panic.
I sat down and wiggled the clip inside the lock more. Frantically, I tried moving it in different ways. I slid it in and turned it. Nothing. I wiggled it around in a circle. Nothing. I pushed. I pulled. Nothing.
The sound of footfalls from a distance sent my heart rate soaring. I pushed the futon back to the wall, still grasping the paper clip. It made noise, but at this point, I had little choice.
I sat down and wiggled the paper clip some more. I frantically tried everything I had already tried.
I could see the outline of a man against the smoked glass of the office, walking toward the door. Time was running out.
With a final desperate twist and push of the clip, the cuff slipped off.
Fuck. I did it.
Adrenaline rushed through me as I weighed my options. With little time to act, I curled up in a seated position on the futon, hiding my freed wrist and the cuff beside my leg. I lifted my leg to conceal that I was no longer cuffed. I’d have to figure out the next step when my killer entered the room.
* * *
The door opened, and a thin, scraggly man entered. He walked to the desk and leaned against it, just like Scarlet had.
We stared at each other and I tried to calm down. The thought of being murdered by this stranger had my body buzzing. My fight-or-flight reflex wanted to kick in. The cuff and my freed wrist were hidden, but I still had to deal with my killer. I didn’t know if I could fight him off and escape.
He looked thin, but there was a hardness to him.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” the thin man asked.
“You’re going to kill me?” My heart pounded.
“Nah. I’m not going to kill you. You’re too pretty to kill.”
He couldn’t meet my eyes. He lied to me.
“You killed my husband, though?” A knot formed in my stomach. Nausea rose rapidly.
“If I tell you, then I’ll have to kill you.” He chuckled as if amused by his own words.
