“Listen,” he says, his tone serious. “I want you to know, Emma, that this is not how I wanted this to end. This wasn’t part of my plan. I don’t even know if I thought it would get this far—I can’t recall. I don’t know how I thought you could fix me. Medication, I don’t know, something manageable? But you know I can’t go back to that hospital. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I really do, but I’m not going to give myself up for you, I’m not going to prison because of you. Not over here and not back in the States. I hope you can understand that this is the only way to be sure I can disappear again.” I start to speak but he stops me with a shake of the head. “I know, I know—you won’t tell a soul. You’ll take it to your grave.Well, that’s kind of what I’m banking on with all this. Listen, you’re a really good doctor, Emma. You actually care, which is rarer than you’d imagine, but people lie and people change their minds. You’d promise me anything right now, but tomorrow? And I’m not going to hang my chances of freedom on your word when you’re tied to a chair. I’m sure you understand my logic. But I will say, I’m truly, truly sorry it’s come to this.”
He looks at me a moment before turning and moving away. My angle on the floor prevents my gaze from following him. Out of sight I hear him crack the shotgun open, then snap it shut.
Oh God. Oh God.“Please. Matthew,” I gush, “you don’t have to do this. I won’t say a word, Ireallypromise. You can just go. I’ll tell them I couldn’t find you. Please.” And a thought suddenly comes as if from nowhere, a solution so clear and reasoned it might just save my life. “Matthew! You asked me to fix you. To stop the cycles. But this, this is the moment it all boils down to. If these memories aren’t you, if there seems like no way out, if you truly aren’t this person, then stop. Just stop, now, and we’re halfway there. You can still change this. Don’t be this person. You can stop making this happen. But only you can.”
He looks down at me, sorrow in his eyes for a moment, and then his expression falters ever so slightly. He takes me in, as if only really seeing me now, on the floor twisted and bound to my tipped-over chair. He looks down at his weapon thoughtfully before gently lowering it and placing it against the wall.
Oh God. It worked.
“I see what you’re saying. I understand. Let’s get you more comfortable,” he says tenderly. “It doesn’t look very dignified, down there. You deserve better.” He grabs the arms of my chair and hoists it and me up together, in one smooth movement, as if we weighed nothing. But he does not loosen my ties. His eyes avoid mine. And I understand that my words have only made him kinder, they have not saved me. His plan has not changed.
He scans the crime scene again. Me righted, his note before me. My exhausted face, hair plastered to my cheeks with sweat and salty tears. My broken hand, bloating and discolored. My bruised wrists bound to the arms of the collapsible metal chair. My breath is coming high and fast. I wonder how he plans to explain away the contusions on my wrists; perhaps he’ll slit them too, or zip-tie them to the gun as if I’d feared missing due to the recoil. Even if it doesn’t look like suicide, there are plenty of nutters out there who could have done this to Charles Beaufort’s daughter. I met one of them only yesterday.
After he’s shot me, he’ll cut me free, place the shotgun between my thighs just the way I remember seeing it done years ago. I watch him as he studies me and I see sadness quietly crescendo behind his eyes. I suppose this is our goodbye. The end of his dream. The end of my life.
He squats down before me. “Can I get you anything, before?” he asks gently. “Water, drink, something?”
I snatch a breath, clinging to the suggestion. A lifeline, if only temporary. If he gets water I’ll have a few more moments. More time to think.
I nod as calmly as I can.
“Just water?” he asks, attentive.
“Please,” I croak, my throat dry and raw from my screams.
“Okay.” He rises with energy, momentarily buoyed by his ability to help in some way. He turns away from me with an unnervingly innocent smile and makes his way out of the room.
As soon as he’s out of sight I desperately fumble with the ties around my wrists, scraping my skin bloody as I try to force my hand out like a trapped animal. This is all the time I have and I’d better make good use of it. I tug in sharp bursts, squeezing my jaw tight against the excruciating pain to stop myself from screaming out. But it’s useless. The ties won’t budge.
I start to panic again, struggling madly, wriggling against the binds, and then I hear it, a tinyplink. I freeze.
The sound of something small and light hitting the flooring beneath me. I look down between my legs. A Day-Glo pink plastic lighter. The lighter I borrowed from the security guard yesterday to light my cigarette, I’d forgotten all about it. I remember now slipping it into the small inside pocket of my jacket, out of sight and, until now, out of mind. My struggling freeing it from its little hiding place.
If I can just reach it. But it sits right beneath me. I ease myself, gently, down onto my knees and lower my shattered hand toward it, scrambling blindly, unable to see exactly what I’m doing. It must be here somewhere, I saw it. Unless it was a mirage. Wishful thinking gone mad. And with that thought the edge of my baby finger taps straight onto its cheap plastic.
Yes.
I try to grab it with my broken fingers but I can’t control the movements. I pull away quickly and shift my weight onto my other knee, dropping my good hand behind me. I stretch as far as I can, I push farther back against the chair. A finger brushes its smooth side. I snatch at it greedily and roll it up into my palm.Yes. I angle the lighter back toward my wrist quickly, and roll the flint with my thumb so that it sparks to life. I let the flame burn straight up at the flesh of my wrist and the ties that bind me.
Its heat is not unpleasant at first, until the fabric of my sleeve singes and bursts into flames. White-hot pain tears through me, searing my flesh. I press my lips together to keep from crying out. I feel the plastic of the zip tie softening and melting onto my burning skin until I fear I’m going to scream in pain. The smell of burning fabric and human tissue. I desperately fight the urge to pull away, I stay as still and quiet as possible. And after an eternity, in which I’m certain I can’t take it for an instant longer, the melted plastic finally gives. I whip my burning arm straight between my thighs, staunching the flames, the fabric of my trousers sticking to my melted flesh. I can’t look at it, the smell is enough. Dizziness overwhelms me. I pray he can’t smell it farther into the house. I need to break the second tie before it’s too late. I hold the lighter in my burnt hand and set to work on the other tie. The gurgle of running water comes from the kitchen as I work in silence. The second tie begins to melt and I pull the hot jammy plastic until it tugs apart.
I bend instantly and pull at the leg ties. I can’t slide the plastic ties off the end of the metal chair legs, as they connect. Shit.I quickly hoist my trouser hem up and steady the first ankle tie. I strike the lighter, the hot flint burning into my thumb as I depress the fluid button down. The edges of the flame lick at my ankles but these leg ties are thicker, the plastic won’t give as easily. I hold the flame on longer, too long—my flesh screams. I bite back a howl of pain so violent I taste blood; the agony is unbearable. And suddenly the leg tie breaks.
I move to the final tie.
The tap in the kitchen has cut out. I wasn’t paying attention. The sound of movement in the kitchen. I try to focus, holding my trembling thumb on the lighter fuel button as the plastic slowly softens in the flame. The sound of footsteps coming this way but the plastic won’t give. I’m not going to make it. I need to move. I leap to my feet as I see him turning in to the hallway just as he looks up and sees me.
His eyes widen and I bolt, grabbing the folding chair that’s still attached to one ankle, and careen wildly toward the shotgun with every last shred of strength I have. I drop the chair at the last second and with free hands grab the barrel of the gun, fumble it up, and level it straight at him.
He skids to a halt. We both stand stock-still, breathing in time. I cannot believe that worked. I slide my shaking fingers into the trigger guard and try to catch my breath, shallow and high, as I keep the gun leveled at his chest.
“Back up,” I order him, my voice croaky. I’m hardly a force to be reckoned with, a barely conscious burnt woman with a chair attached to her leg. But then, I have a loaded double-barreled shotgun, so it doesn’t really matter what’s attached to my leg, does it?
He backs up.
I shuffle painfully, out of the study and away from him, tugging the metal chair behind me. I keep the gun trained squarely on his torso, the biggest target area, as I go. I edge back along the wall of the hallway toward the front door slowly, my eyes locked with his. His expression is unreadable, just like it was in that hospital corridor yesterday. He takes me in like a house cat watching a robin. Then his gaze flutters, he breaks the look, his eyes flicking down, at something right behind me.
It’s a trick, I know it. He’s trying to distract me. I’m not falling for that.
