A feeling of dread stirs inside my stomach.
What if they didn’t get my message? What if they couldn’t figure it out? What if I made a huge mistake, not just calling the police?
I fight back a shiver of panic. My fingers tremble against the keys as blood drips onto the desk, my raw wrists weeping steadily until the wood surface is slippery and red in the low light of the office. Only the glow of the laptop illuminates the space.
Birkin is unstable. That much is clear. If a team of policemen pull up outside with flashing lights and sirens, I’ll be dead before they make it to the front door.
No way in hell am I taking that chance.
Plus, it’s not exactly like I can call 911 and ask for assistance without him noticing.
I can, however, access his iPhone.
With the laptop piggybacking on his satellite signal for WiFi coverage, I’m already connected. Once I realized that, I knew I could send a text right from the computer. I could reach out to Parker and Nate. The only question was… what the hell kind of message does one send, in this scenario?
Writing something obvious like, “Help! Birkin has me tied up at his old office and is holding me hostage with a freakishly large needle, come save me ASAP!” basically guarantees my demise if Birkin so much as glances at his phone messages in the time it takes help to get here. He’d instantly know I hacked his phone.
Hello, needle to the neck.
Sending a cryptic message seems even less ideal; sure, in his drug-addled state there’s a chance Birkin wouldn’t realize I was the one sending texts from his phone if they aren’t an overt call for help… but there’s an equal chance that Parker and Nate would have no idea what I was trying to tell them.
Hello, slow and painful death.
In the end, the decision comes down to trust.
Trust that the universe isn’t always out to get me.
Trust that, sometimes, you can count on people.
And, ultimately, trust that Phoebe’s unfailing addiction to all things fashionable will finally serve a purpose other than making her look fabulous.
The message I sent has no words — only an image.
I have to hope it’s enough to lead them to me.
As time ticks by, I feel my blood pressure slowly rising. I can’t stop wondering if I made the right decision.
Of course you didn’t, idiot, a nasty, doubtful voice whispers. When Parker gets a text message from a random number with nothing but a picture of a Hermès handbag, he’s going to think it’s a butt-dial and ignore it.
Another voice chimes in. Don’t worry. That guy you love? He’s pretty smart. He’ll know it’s from you. He’ll figure it out.
“This is taking too fucking long!” Birkin is getting more belligerent with each passing minute. “Why is it taking so long?”
“I’m doing my best.” I try to keep my voice steady as I watch him come closer. “They have a strong firewall. Maybe if you undid my hands I could type faster.”
“Shut up!” He waves the needle closer. “For the last time, I’m not untying your fucking hands, you little bitch.”
I type out a few more strings of nonsense code.
How long has it been since I sent that text?
At least a half hour, maybe more.
Assuming they understood what I was trying to say, it’ll still take time for them to track down possible locations. His house. His old practice. I was unconscious on the ride here, thanks to motherfucking Steve, so I have no idea how long it will take them to find me…
Too long.
Birkin is itching at his skin like it’s crawling with invisible bugs. He can’t seem to stand still — he’s pacing tight circles behind me, muttering to himself.
“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.”
I type faster.
“I don’t think you understand the severity of this situation, Zoe,” he says, putting his face right up next to mine so his breath puffs against my skin. “Lancaster — he owes me money. I need that money to—”
Buy drugs.
“—to get out of here,” he says, eyes flashing. “To get out of this damn city. I can’t stay here anymore. My reputation — Lancaster said he’d give me so much money it wouldn’t matter. But now…” He leans in closer. “You fucking ruined everything. Everything!”
I flinch back as his hands slam against the desk.
“What time is it?” he hisses, reaching into his pocket.
No, no, no, no. Don’t look at your phone.
“Wait!” I yell, voice cracking. “I think— I think I’m about to crack the firewall!”
Birkin is strangely silent.
My fingers stop moving — they hover over the keys, shaking with the effort not to turn and look at him. My legs tense up, poised to run if no other option presents itself. With my hands bound and my head spinning, there’s pretty much no way I’ll outrun him. But I’m sure as shit going to try.
“What the fuck is this….” I hear him mutter.
I don’t wait another second.