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I wait with bated breath, but it has to be nearly an hour before I hear the toilet flush from upstairs. Then comes the sound of the bathtub faucet. The running water tells me he’s taking a bath. That he’s made a mess.
I smile to myself. Even if my plan didn’t totally work—and maybe it still will—at least it saved me for the night. Better than the alternative.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Several days pass as I wait to see if Chris will die. At least, I’m fairly certain it’s that much time. As always, I have no real way of knowing. Again, the withdrawals begin to hit me, though not as bad this time. I spend a lot of time sleeping, and when I’m awake, I find myself trembling and drenched in sweat, but I manage to keep my food down.
For the most part, from what I’ve heard, he’s spent our time apart in the bathroom, which might be funny if I wasn’t down here starving. The grape candies are gone, and my throat is dry at this point, plus my own bathroom bucket has become quite full and the room smells like death, the stench attracting flies which have begun to take over the space. Each time one buzzes past my ears, it’s as unbearable as nails on a chalkboard.
If I kill him, will I be stuck in this room forever?
I guess I never thought that part through well enough until it was too late. I expected him to die while he was still down here, so I’d have the keys as a means of escape. I never thought about what might happen if he left the room.
Will I die down here, starving and alone, waiting for someone to find me?
Luckily, my worst fears are soothed when the door finally opens, and Chris appears. His skin is sallow, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. He hands me a tray of food, and I grab the glass of water first, surprising us both with that turn of events, and chugging it down. Then, I reach for the wine.
“Sorry. I’ve been sick.” He glances at the bucket. “I’ll clean that out when I get back from work. Do you need anything else?”
“No,” I say between swallows of wine. When my stomach starts to burn from overindulgence, I place the glass on the end table and stare down at the soup and salad waiting for me. The salad looks slimy, and the lettuce is beginning to brown, but I’m so grateful for food I can’t bring myself to care. “Are you feeling better now?”
He nods. “Yeah, it must’ve been the pizza. You haven’t been sick?”
“No, I’m fine.”
His lips draw in. “Well, there’s lunch. I’ll be back this evening to bring you dinner.”
“Thank you.”
He leaves and shuts the door, and I listen for the click of the lock. When it comes, like always, I dig into my food. The first spoonful of soup burns my tongue. It’s warmer than usual today, and a tomato base rather than the broth-based soups he typically brings because he knows they’re my favorite. The fact that he didn’t have time to let it cool before he brought the soup down, in addition to the hurried feel of his visit, tells me he’s running late for work. Staring at the fork he left me for my salad, I realize with a sudden surge of glee he’s made a mistake in his rush. In my hand, I’m holding anactualmetal fork, rather than the usual plastic one. This is the first time he’s left me with something sharp.
Could it be that he trusts me now? Or maybe he’s testing me? Perhaps, but my theory is that he was just so distracted he wasn’t thinking clearly.
I stare down at the fork, running my fingers along the tines. I have no idea how to pick a lock, nor whether or not it’s possible to do with this, but since this is his first, and potentially only slip-up, I have to try.
Knowing the camera is still watching me, I slip the fork down to my side and continue to eat my soup, acting as nonchalantly as possible in a moment where I’m trying to determine whether or not I’ll be able to escape.
After I’ve finished my soup, I slip off the bed, fork tucked against my side, and cross the room toward the bathroom bucket just behind the door. It’s the one place in the room I’m nearly sure he can’t see me on the camera.
Keeping myself firmly against the wall, I sidle up to the door and stare at the lock, assessing it. The chain on the outside is still broken from when Chris escaped—at least, I haven’t heard him using it lately nor have I ever heard him fixing it—so theoretically my only obstacle is this piece of metal. If I can figure out a way to pick the lock, I’ll be free. This time, with Chris at work, no one will be here to stop me. I lift my hand slowly, staring down at the fork as the idea begins to take root in my mind. Then, applying pressure with my thumb, I push against the three tines at the top. Slowly, they begin to give, each one bending forward. I push until my thumb hurts, the outline of each tine indented into my skin. Then, I turn the fork in my hand and push them back in the opposite direction. I repeat this process over and over, weakening them slowly. As I see the metal beginning to grow thin, my heart picks up speed.
It’s actually working.
I push once more, and two of the tines pop off with a sharpclick.Pulling the third back, it’s quick to join them. With the remaining tine, I hold the fork up to the lock and place it inside the bottom. Then I place one of the broken pieces into the top of the keyhole.
I know a little bit about bump keys—the keys used to pick locks—as I’ve written about them in one of my books. This isn’t exactly the same, but if I can manage to get the tine in the right place, at the right angle, I think it might still work.
When I feel the pieces lock into place, I begin to turn them.
Carefully, I maneuver the tines, twisting them gently in the direction they need to go. At first, there’s quite a bit of give. The pieces turn easily, and I’m sure I’ve actually done it.
Then it stops.
Suddenly, both pieces are stuck, and neither will budge an inch farther. Fearing the worst, I pull them out and put them back in, twisting and cajoling them, hoping they’ll work. Slowly, just when I’m about to give up, I start to feel a bit of give.
My lungs clench.
Come on.
