If Lance sees what she’s doing…
Almost as if Hanna senses my fear, she bleats out a weak, “Help me. Please,” before gasping for air again.
Lance crouches beside Hanna, frowning at her. “Stop it!”
“She can’t!” Georgia says. “Look at her!”
Hanna jerks in her chair. Her back bows.
“So, I’ll stop her!” Lance shouts at Georgia. “This is fucking everything up!” Then he clamps his hand over Hanna’s mouth and nose, cutting off her air.
“No!” Georgia cries.
Instinctively, I lunge forward in my seat. The handcuffs dig into my wrists. Pain flares from the bullet wound in my arm. Fresh blood dampens my shirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Charlie fumbling with the organizer on the shelf. Unable to see what she’s doing, and with her hands bound behind her, she’s having a hard time of it. The organizer keeps skittering away from her. As soon as she catches hold of a paperclip, it slips from her trembling fingers.
“Come on,” Charlie whispers, more to herself than to me. “Come on.Please.”
Across the room, Lance’s hand is still clamped over Hanna’s face.
Georgia is still shouting.
And I’m still stuck in this fucking chair, helpless to do anything.
Then.
Several things happen at once.
With a small, triumphant, “Yes!” Charlie snags one of the paperclips.
Lightning-quick, she scoots her chair back to the table and turns, so her hands bump against mine.
Thin metal pokes my thumb, and I snatch hold of it.
Georgia shouts, “Get your hands off her!”
As I push the tip of the paperclip into the handcuff lock, Hanna pulls her legs up and kicks Lance in the gut.
He lets out a startled, “Ooof!” and falls backward, onto his ass.
After sucking in a deep breath, Hanna snaps, “You asshole! I needed help! Not for you to smother me!”
Urgency prods my fingers to move faster. Working by feel alone, I wiggle the paperclip back and forth, waiting—hoping—for the familiar click of the mechanism unlocking.
“What the fuck!” Lance blurts. He lunges towards Hanna. His fist flies out, clipping her jaw. “You were supposed to be dying!”
Hanna winces. But she holds her head high. Throwing a furious look at him, she spits, “Andyou’rean asshole. And you stink of sweat and onions.”
Lance blinks at her. “What?”
“Hurry,” Charlie murmurs. “If he hits her again?—”
“I know,” I mutter. “This damn paperclip?—”
Works.
The mechanism unlocks.
