Nice Girls(89)

The pain was sharp, unbearable.

Then it dulled.

My wrists were warm from the friction, as one wrist moved and the other stayed put. I only had to focus on the task. It was my one moment of peace until John Stack arrived.

I kept twisting, even as my left arm grew sore. I yanked even harder against the rope, egging myself on.

I wanted the pain to stop.

I wanted my wrists to breathe.

I wanted some peace.

I kept twisting, harder and harder. For every moment that my wrists burned in the dark, I was triumphant. If I kept twisting hard enough, the friction would start a fire. I was delirious enough to believe it.

And suddenly—relief. I felt the heat simmer down, as subtle as a breeze.

But I felt it. Cold air was seeping in between my wrists. I was loosening the rope.

I started yanking even harder. The pain grew again. It seared into my bones. Sparks flashed before my eyes. I was slowly sawing the skin off my wrist. I gnawed even harder on the fabric, trying to keep the scream from bursting out.

I was going to pass out from the pain, I could feel it.

I would wake up and find John Stack standing over me.

And he would walk away unscathed, unbothered, unrepentant.

I grunted, enraged.

And I unclenched my left fist, and I squished my fingers together, trying to make my hand as small as possible.

And I wrenched up my arm, full force, my wrist burning on the rope like fire.





44




My hand was free.

I lay frozen, stunned. My left hand plopped in front of me. It stung all over, pulsing with pain. My right arm was lying on top of my back, heavy like deadweight.

Slowly, my left fingers twitched. I shook off the rope from my right wrist, bringing it in front of me. My hands were throbbing as if electricity shot through them, but they were free.

Just like that, I felt like I’d suddenly come up for air. My body was trembling from the shock.

With one hand, I ripped out the fabric from my mouth. Drool slid down my chin. I put both of my arms in front of me, trying to push myself up. I crashed back down instead, my ankles still bound together.

I scrunched smaller on the plastic, fumbling in the dark for the rope on my ankles.

I was shaking.

At any second, the hatch to the basement would open up. Light would come pouring in. And then John Stack would stagger down, finding me in a mangled mess on the plastic. He would finish the job sooner than he thought.

My fingers were slick as they found the knot in the rope. I tried to pry the knot apart, but I winced from the sharp pain in my left wrist. It was raw—the rope had ripped the skin off.

I kept prying at the knot until my legs suddenly crashed down on the plastic. They were spread far apart from each other. My feet prickled with pain, as if needles were jabbing into them—but it was the blood circulating back to my feet. After a moment, I forced myself up to my knees. I felt wobbly, kneeling up in the dark.

I suddenly pictured Olivia tied down on the plastic, then DeMaria. They were bound and gagged like I was, tearful and broken. The thoughts seemed to puncture my brain, and I couldn’t stop them.

John Stack had experience.

No one was supposed to make it out.

I was shaking.

I finally heaved myself up from my knees. The plastic crunched under my weight, and I held my breath, waiting for footsteps.

But when the plastic settled, there was nothing but silence.

I wobbled forward, both arms outstretched in front of me. I needed to reach the light switch. I didn’t know what I planned to do afterward, only that I needed to see.

My fear of the dark was back. Each step forward was more intimidating than the last. I was afraid that John Stack was hiding in the basement after all, watching me. Or that if I took a step too far, someone else would come crawling out of the dark.

I gasped, my hand jerking back from something hard and cold. I reached out again and realized it was wood against my fingertips—I was touching the worktable at the center of the room. If I followed it, I would end up right next to the stairway.

My right fingers traced the edge of the table, and I started picking up speed. Time was running out. I followed the long edge of the table, one hand blindly outstretched, hoping to grasp something solid.

My hand seemed to extend on and on into nothingness.

Until I brushed cold wood. My fingers wrapped themselves around a rail—I was at the foot of the stairs. I stepped toward it, my shin bumping against a step.

My hands started grasping everywhere in front of me, patting both the rail and the icy burn of the wall.

My body was desperate now, rejecting the cold and the darkness. My fingers kept patting around, faster and farther, until they somehow crashed against the light switch. There was a click.

Suddenly the lights flickered on.

After the sparks faded from my eyes, I could see my hands under the orange glow.

They looked small and feeble. My left wrist was raw and bloodied—it looked like I’d sliced off wide slabs of the skin. As soon as I looked at it, the pain kicked in. My wrist stung, red-hot and searing.

But it shook me awake.

And I realized the light was dangerous. If John Stack saw a glow from downstairs, he would know something had happened.

I needed to move quickly.

The easiest plan was to run upstairs and bolt.

But something stopped me.

I turned around slowly, my skin prickling. No one was there, except for the tables around the room. There was a gleam from the table saw.