Chapter 8 - Frank Cut the Rope—and Accidentally Gave Me What I Needed
After Frank cut my rag rope, he took the longer half upstairs.
He left the shorter half on the floor.
Three feet of cloth.
Useless for reaching:
the key.
He thought.
Then Carol came down later with:
soup.
She stepped carefully around the debris.
Saw the cut rope.
“You frightened him.”
I almost laughed.
“I frightened him?”
“He thinks you’ll hurt yourself.”
“With towels?”
“You’re desperate.”
“Yes.”
That answer stopped her.
“I am.”
I looked directly at her.
“I am thirty-four weeks pregnant and locked in your basement.”
Carol’s face changed.
Not enough.
Then she said:
“If you would just sign—”
“No.”
“He’ll lose the company.”
“No.”
“We may lose the house.”
That was new.
“Frank told you?”
“He personally guaranteed everything.”
I had suspected.
“Then file bankruptcy.”
She recoiled as if I had cursed.
“You don’t understand what that would do.”
“Yes.”
“I do.”
“It would formalize a loss that already exists.”
She hated me for that sentence.
Carol went upstairs.
When she did, she accidentally left:
the laundry basket.
Different basket.
Metal handle.
I stared at it.
Then at the short rope.
Frank had taken:
length.
Carol had supplied:
another hook.
I did not need eight strips.
I needed:
a longer line.
The basement had an old flannel sheet in a storage bin.
My mother’s? No. Just old linens.
I tore it slowly along:
a seam.
Twisted.
Knotted.
Not pretty.
Long enough.
I attached the new wire hook.
Then waited until:
4:12 a.m.
Why that time?
Frank left the house every Thursday at:
4:30
to meet a truck at the warehouse.
Routine.
I had worked for him enough summers to remember.
Carol slept heavily after taking:
prescription sleep medication.
I did not know whether Frank would leave that morning.
At 4:19, I heard:
garage door.
Engine.
Silence.
I waited:
ten minutes.
Then moved to:
the stairs.
Hands shaking.
Not from fear alone.
My back hurt.
The baby moved.
I whispered:
“Okay.”
Not to her exactly.
To:
both of us.
First throw.
Missed.
Second.
Wire struck:
wood.
Third.
Caught:
nothing.
I rested.
Breathed.
Fourth.
The wire hook closed around:
the key ring.
I pulled slowly.
The ring lifted.
Slipped.
Dropped.
Not through:
the railing.
Onto the stair tread.
Too far.
My heart pounded.
I used:
the hook again.
Dragged it.
One step.
Then another.
Finally the keys fell through the open riser.
They hit:
concrete.
The sound felt enormous.
I froze.
No footsteps.
I picked them up.
The door key turned.
Click.
I did not run.
Pregnant women in thrillers always run.
I walked.
Quietly.
Upstairs.
Carol’s bedroom door remained:
closed.
My phone sat on the kitchen counter plugged into:
a charger.
Of course.
They had been charging it.
Controlling does not always look:
chaotic.
I picked it up.
No service?
Service.
Twelve missed calls.
Two from Luke.
Three from Nina.
One from my obstetrician.
Two from work.
Messages from Carol had been sent from my phone? No, too much. But maybe Carol answered one text? Better not.
Battery:
ninety-four percent.
I did not stay to read.
I took:
phone,
wallet,
keys from Frank’s desk drawer once I found them.
Opened:
the side door.
Cold air hit my face.
I had not been outside in:
three days.
I walked to the neighbor’s house.
Not far.
A retired teacher named Marilyn Price answered after:
several knocks.
She looked at me.
Pregnant.
Dirty.
Shaking.
Then said:
“Oh my God.”
I asked:
“Can I use your phone?”
She looked at the phone already in my hand.
I started laughing.
Then crying.
That was how shock works.
Marilyn sat me down.
Called emergency services.
And for the first time since Saturday, someone asked me:
“What happened?”
May you like
without already deciding the answer.
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