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And wait.
After about an hour, she sits down as well. Because her hands are shackled behind the tree, it leaves her arms in a slightly awkward position. She shifts several times before apparently finding a comfortable spot. And then she just sits there.
Another hour passes.
Two.
Once we’re coming up on three and a half hours since I left her there, that seed of doubt in my chest has grown so large that I can no longer ignore it.
Surely, if she was the assassin from that night, she would have done something at this point. Would’ve picked the lock on the handcuffs and walked back to her apartment. Or something. Anything.
But she’s just sitting there.
Unless that is actually proof that she is the assassin? Would a normal person just sit there like that?
If only I could see the expression on her face. Then I might be able to read her emotions. Is she sitting there with a defeated and hopeless look on her face? Or a calm and composed one? Because of how dark the woods are, it’s impossible to tell.
I rake my hands through my hair with quick angry movements. Fuck. She’s messing with my head again. She has been messing with it for the past six years, and finally meeting her in person has only made everything worse. Not better.
Except, it might not be her. Did I just handcuff an innocent woman to a tree and then—
A jolt shoots through me, interrupting my tangled thoughts, as Isabella stands up.
She turns her head as if looking carefully around the area.
And then she simplywalks awayfrom the tree trunk.
Stunned shock pulses through my body as I stare at her. But I don’t dare to move in case I accidentally make any noise and give my presence away. I need to see what she’s going to do now.
The handcuffs are lying discarded on the ground next to the tree. I look from them to Isabella as she lifts her arms above her head, stretching out her muscles.
My brows furrow in confusion as she walks deeper into the woods instead of towards the road.
She disappears behind a bush. Then the sound of something like a thin stream of water hitting dry leaves drifts through the air.
I blink.Oh. She’s peeing. I fight the urge to look away, even though I can’t see her.
After a few moments of silence, she reappears from behind the bush again. I narrow my eyes at her as she walks back to the tree.
Utter incredulity clangs through my skull as she picks up the handcuffs and then locks herself back in.
For almost half a minute, all I can do is stare at her.
Then the shock gives way to another feeling. Victory. I’ve got her now. No normal person would free themselves from the tree, go and pee, and then lock themselves back in. Not unless they were trying desperately to convince someone that they’re much less skilled than they really are.
Silently rising to my feet, I get ready to stalk up to her and confront her about it. But I hesitate before I can take the first step.
I’ve been at this for two weeks now. Two weeks of almost constant harassment. Of threats and humiliation and blackmail. And she still hasn’t said anything. No matter what I do, she never breaks.
And every time she says or does something even slightly incriminating, she always has a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.
Standing there in the dark woods, watching Isabella sit down again, I’m suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of futility. She is never going to break. I should just kill her and be done with it.
My heart squeezes tight again.
I can’t kill her. Because I still need those answers.
But maybe I have been going about it the wrong way? Maybe there is another way, a smarter way, to get her to tell me what I want to know?
