Chapter 2 - Thirty Seconds With a Blade
The red lights didn't blink. That was the worst part. They just stayed on, steady and hot inside the cut, while the guard's gun stayed leveled at my back.
I hadn't realized I'd stopped breathing until my own pulse filled my ears. My left hand was still hooked in the slit I'd made in the headboard, the cream fabric pulled tight over my knuckles. My right hand held the little silver tool out to the side where they could see it. I made sure they could see it. Blade angled down. No sudden moves.
Mr. Moradi hadn't moved off the bed. He sat with his hands braced on the mattress on either side of his thighs, his robe pulled tight at the neck, staring at the open padding like it might move.
"You haven't been sleeping in this bed." That's what I'd said to start all this. And now nobody was sleeping.
"Hands where I can see them," the guard behind me said. Guard One. The one with the gun. His voice was low, flat. Not shouting. That scared me more.
"They are," I said. "Look. They're right here."
I didn't turn around. The gold frame of the headboard threw a warm glare in my peripheral vision from the sconce light. I could smell the dust from inside the padding, sharp and chemical, and the lemon oil from the bedside table where I'd set my caddy.
Moradi lifted his chin an inch. "Hold," he said.
It took me a second to realize he wasn't talking to me.
The guard didn't lower the gun, but he stopped stepping forward. His shadow stayed stretched long across the marble floor toward the bed.
Moradi looked at me then. His eyes were rimmed dark, exhausted in a way makeup couldn't fake. He'd been sitting on top of the covers for three nights instead of under them. I'd charted it in my head every morning when I came in to turn the room.
"Explain," he said. "Without touching anything else."
I swallowed. "You told me thirty seconds."
"Then use them."
Behind me, the second guard shifted his weight. I heard his shoes creak. "Ma'am, step back from the headboard," he said. Quieter than the first one. Trying to sound reasonable. "You cut it open. We see it. Step back now so we can secure it."
If I stepped back, the fabric would fall shut. The yellow padding would fold back over those black boxes and the red lights would disappear behind tufting again. And then it would be my word against a closed headboard.
I didn't step back.
"Sir," I said to Moradi, keeping my eyes on him because he was the only one who could stop this, "I'm not touching the wiring. I'm not touching the boxes. But if I let go, you won't see how deep they sit."
"You have twenty seconds," Moradi said.
My fingers were cramping. The cut I'd made was only about four inches long. Enough to see a corner of one module and a twist of red and blue wire disappearing into the padding. Not enough for all three of them to see it clearly from where they stood.
Guard One took another half-step. I felt the air change. "Don't," he warned.
"Please," I said. It came out thin. I hated how thin. "If I'm wrong, fire me. You said I could— you said—"
"Don't quote me back to me," Moradi said. His hand lifted off the mattress, tattooed knuckles catching the lamplight, then dropped again. "Do what you're going to do."
That was permission. It wasn't safety, but it was permission.
I turned my wrist slowly so both guards could track the tool. Then I slipped the flat edge back under the lip of the fabric — not near the wires, a half-inch to the left where it was only backing cloth — and pulled down with steady pressure.
The fabric gave with a soft rip. Dust puffed out. The slit widened to almost eight inches.
The padding bulged outward, yellowed and compressed around two black rectangles set side by side. Wires ran between them, red, green, yellow, tucked tight like stitching. One red LED on each box glowed straight at us. No blinking. Just on.
I let go of the fabric edge and lifted both hands slightly, tool still pinched between my thumb and forefinger.
"There," I said. My voice shook on the word. "Mr. Moradi, someone put this inside your bed."
No one spoke for a beat. The bedside lamp hummed. Somewhere down the hall, an ice machine dropped cubes.
Moradi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, robe gaping at the collar. He didn't reach out. He'd been told not to touch and for once he obeyed his own rule. His eyes moved from the lights to the wires to my hands and back to the lights.
"How long?" he asked.
I knew what he meant. How long had it been there. I shook my head. "I don't know. I only know you haven't been under the covers. And the tufting here—" I nodded at the headboard without pointing. "It was stiff. Last week it gave when I pressed it. This week it didn't."
Guard Two exhaled through his nose. "Time," he said.
Moradi didn't look at him.
May you like
"Time," Guard One repeated, louder. "Thirty's up."
The gun didn't move. But no shot came. The red lights stayed on. All four of us stared into the cut I'd made, and for the first time since I'd pressed my hand to that headboard, Moradi looked like he believed me.
