Relief sluices through me. “Fine! I’ll tell him whatever you want, just let me go and—”
“Can’t do that.” Righty’s head shakes.
“Why not? I already agreed to deliver your damn message!”
Lefty smirks. “Youare the message.”
“What?”
There’s a ripping sound as Righty tears a large piece of duct tape off the roll and steps forward. “When your husband comes home and finds you, he’ll know just how serious we are about getting our product back.”
“But— you don’t understand! Hewon’tfind me!” I yell, eyes widening as I watch that piece of duct tape coming closer, closer, closer, like a poisonous snake about to strike. I jerk my head to the side, trying to evade him, but he grabs my chin with bruising fingers and holds me still. “I told you — he doesn’t live here anymore! If you leave me like this I’m—Mmmmm!MMMMM!”
My protests cut off into muffled, indistinct cries as he shoves the swathe of tape across the bottom half of my face. My lips move frantically against the sticky backing, trying like hell to make them understand that their plan won’t work, that Paul won’t ever get their stupid message because he no longer has a key to this house or a place in my life… but it’s no use. My screams are in vain. Useless and unintelligible.
Lefty leans in, meeting my furious gaze, and smiles stiffly. “You tell Paul he has one week to return what he took from Alexei,” he murmurs, stroking one finger slowly down my cheek. He’s so near, I can feel each of his breaths puffing hot against my face. “If he doesn’t… we’ll be back to pay you another visit. And next time, we won’t be quite sopolitewhen it comes to his pretty wife.”
Snapping my head forward, I try to head-butt him, but he pulls away before I can make contact.
“Nice try.” His eyes gleam with dark amusement. “I must say, part of me hopes your husband doesn’t cooperate. You and I could have a lot of fun together,malishka…”
I glare up at him. My blood is boiling with fury and, much as I hate to acknowledge it, fear. Because I know, if they walk away and leave me here, tied to a damn antique dining chair with my very existence contingent upon my shit-head husband’s decisions…
I’m a dead woman.
I try desperately to convey this message with my eyes.
You can’t leave me like this!
Paul doesn’t even live here!
No one is going to check on me!
Unfortunately, neither of them seems even remotely inclined to decipher the distress in my eyes. Without another word to me, they turn and walk out of the dining room, their heavy boots sounding sharply against the glossy hardwood floors I refinished this spring, just so I had something to keep my endless days occupied.
“Mmmm!Mmmm!” I yell against the tape. “MMMMM!”
But the only answer is the click of my front door, followed by thick, pervasive silence.
For a moment I just sit there, stunned into submission, wondering how the hell this has happened. Wishing I could close my eyes and re-do this entire day, preferably not getting out of bed at all. Praying that it’s all a terrible dream from which I’ll jolt awake at any moment, only to find myself tangled in sweat-drenched sheets.
The bite of duct tape against my bare wrists and ankles pointedly assures me that this is no dream. I’m awake. This is happening.
I’m totally screwed.
My purse mocks me from the center of the table where Lefty dropped it after forcing me into this chair. It’s far out of reach — as is the cellphone I know is sitting at the bottom beside my wallet and keys. I glance around the room, looking for anything that might possibly help get me out of this situation, but there’s nothing except antique furniture and gold foil art-deco wallpaper. No convenient letter openers or sharp-edged knickknacks I could use to cut myself out of this mess.
Damn my aversion to clutter.
The bright light streaming through the sheer curtains tells me it’s probably close to noon. I spend at least an hour thrashing, attempting to get free, trying like hell to scoot the heavy chair from its spot. My bonds don’t loosen. I barely budge more than an inch, and succeed only in frustrating myself to the point of tears.
If my life were a movie, I suppose I’d be the sort of heroine who knocked the chair over, splintering it into pieces and freeing herself in the process. As we’ve already established, my life isnota movie. Even if I could topple my chair (which, for the record, I can’t; trust me, I tried) I doubt the impact would break its joints.
Say what you will about American Colonial pieces… they’re sturdy as hell.
When my muscles are exhausted and aching, I try screaming for help, hoping a neighbor might hear me through the open bay window on the other side of the room. My morose, muffled wails barely permeate the tape, let alone reach the street.
No one can hear me. Or, if they can, they don’t care enough to come investigate. (I’m not sure which alternative is more upsetting.)