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I just lay there instead of trying to get back on the bed. It was easier.
Eventually I calmed down. If Miranda wanted me dead, I would already be dead.
Although that raised the question of why she wanted me alive. Which was not any more comforting.
It took a long time – maybe an hour – for the drugs to wear off enough to where I could stand. As soon as I could, I stumbled over to the door and tried the handle.
Locked.
I reached up my hands and felt in my hair.
Whoever had brought me here hadn’t searched me thoroughly enough. I pulled out two bobby pins.
Johnny hadn’t just taught me to pick handcuffs; he’d taught me all sorts of locks.
But I wasn’t going to do it just yet.
First I staggered to the sink, turned on the tap, and put my mouth right under the faucet. I could almost feel my tongue plumping back up from the shriveled little raisin it had become.
After I drank, I went back to the door and laid down in front of it. Time to gather intelligence.
The gap under the door was almost an inch high, so I could see a fair amount within a foot or two on either side. There was tile flooring. It must have been a hallway, because I was facing a blank wall with no other visible doors. I could hear a hum, some kind of machinery or motor.
“Hello?” I called out – not too loud for someone to hear down the hall, but definitely loud enough for a sentry stationed by the door to hear.
Nothing happened.
I figured I was alone – or at least unattended to.
I bent the bobby pins and took off the rubber nubs, then set to work on the lock. It was difficult in the dark, but I soldiered on, relying mostly on feel. After about five minutes I was rewarded with a tiny click! and a vibration in the doorknob as the tumblers fell into place.
I turned the doorknob. Unlocked – though I didn’t pull the door open. Not yet.
My heart thudded in my chest as I placed my ear against the door and listened. Other than the hum, I couldn’t hear anything.
This might be my only chance at escape. I had to take it.
I bunched my hand into a fist and put the bobby pins between my fingers so they stuck out like spikes. If anybody came at me, I was going for their eyes.
Then I pulled the doorknob.
Nothing happened.
I looked down in shock. The issue wasn’t the doorknob; it twisted left and right freely.
Maybe the door was stuck. I pulled harder.
Nope.
I braced my foot against the wall and heaved backwards with all my strength.
Nada.
There must have been some other sort of lock – a padlock, maybe, or a bolt – on the other side of the door.
Cursing silently, I used the bobby pins to lock the doorknob again, then re-bent them enough to put them back in my hair. Finally I found the little rubber bobby pin tips I had discarded on the floor, put them in the toilet, and flushed.
Then I laid back down in my bed and wept in frustration.
