Page 76 of Property of Whiskey

I wait until the door closes.

Then I immediately start working on the cuffs.

Thirty minutes.

He thinks I’m going to sit quietly in his mother’s basement for thirty fucking minutes.

That man does not know me at all.

Chapter Eight

Twila

The cuff connecting my wrists to the chain has enough play for me to twist my hands and inspect the links.

Solid.

The post is solid too.

The workbench is bolted down.

The stairs might as well be in another county.

I sit on the concrete and use one boot to reach for a toolbox several feet past the limit of the chain.

Too far.

A broom leans beside the washing machine.

Closer.

I stretch my leg.

Miss.

Stretch again.

My toe catches the handle.

Yes.

I drag it toward me one inch at a time until the whole damn thing falls sideways with a crash loud enough to wake Kentucky.

I freeze.

Nothing happens.

Good.

I hook the broom more securely with my boot and drag it the rest of the way over.

The wooden handle is too light to break the chain.

Heavy enough to hurt Whiskey if he comes back stupid.

Five minutes later, I’ve managed to retrieve a broom, an old dustpan, and a Christmas wreath.

None are particularly useful.