Page 29 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

She had creases from the blankets on her face and the golden morning sun glowed behind her.

She slow-blinked at me like she was trying to piece something together.

“Meds hit you hard, huh?”

I rolled my neck, wincing at the sharp pain up the back from my head falling to my chest in my sleep.

“I don’t know what happened. I was a little lightheaded, so I sat down. Then… morning.”

She glanced toward the window, staring at the light as if it were a problem she was trying to solve.

Then she made her way toward the kitchen, going through the motions of making coffee.

“What…” she said, making me glance over to where she was standing, staring down at the clean forks and mugs.

Well, it looked like the jig was almost up.

She glanced over at me, then past me at the living room, her gaze focused on the folded blanket, then the cleaned-up saltines.

But I was pretty sure it was the book that did it. I hadn’t realized I’d moved it. It was sitting on the arm of the couch.

Her gaze cut to me, her eyes huge.

She looked down at my ankles, at my wrists.

But then she zeroed in on my mouth.

My mouth… without the duct tape.

She yanked open the drawer near her, reaching inside and grabbing a steak knife.

“You got up.”

Her voice quivered.

“It’s been, what, thirty-six hours. You didn’t think it was weird that I hadn’t pissed myself yet?”

She flew at me, knife raised.

Going behind the chair, she had to drop the knife to tighten the cuffs. Which she did. To the point of pain.

“Relax,” I said, as she grabbed her knife and came around me. “Don’t you think if I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it either time you passed out?”

“You were walking around while I was sleeping?”

“And while you went to the hospital. Went to get breakfast. Had a shower. Got a nap in. Did some reading.”

“I don’t… your ankles.”

“Want to see a magic trick?” I asked, slowly rising so I didn’t scare her and make her skewer me with that damn knife. I knew from my cousin Salvatore that a knife wound was often more gnarly than a bullet. I didn’t need firsthand knowledge.

I straightened as much as the chair would allow, then lifted the legs out of the zip ties.

“Sit back down,” she demanded, backing toward her backpack, her gaze never leaving me. She didn’t even blink.

I sat.

Then I watched her come toward me with the damn rope.