Page 71 of Property of Whiskey

He lifts both hands. “It ain’t what you think.”

“There is a chain in your mother’s basement.”

“Old house.”

“Attached to a post.”

“Used to secure equipment.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Nope.”

“I will fucking scream.”

“Figured.”

He takes another set of cuffs from his pocket.

I back away. “Where did you get those?”

“The van.”

“A murder van, I called it.”

“Need you secure.”

“I am already cuffed.”

“You can walk.” He reaches for the chain.

I kick.

He blocks with his shin.

“Quit.”

“No.”

“Twila.”

“No.”

He gets one end of the second cuffs through my restraints before I can twist away, then wraps an arm around my waist and pins me against him long enough to clip the other side through the chain.

Click.

I freeze.

Then pull hard.

The chain rattles against the post and gives me several feet of movement.

Enough to reach the couch.

The workbench.

A section of shelves.