Chapter 11: Window Light Moves
The blue changed.
I hadn't noticed it moving until it was already gone from where it had been. Earlier it had cut straight across the crates behind Enzo, a hard cool line against the warm bulb over us. Now it had slid up the wall and thinned, leaving a gray shape on the floorboards near my chair. I felt the shift before I understood it, a cooler draft on the side of my face.
Enzo noticed me looking.
"You feel that?" he said.
I didn't answer at first. My wrists were still working. Slow, shallow. I'd gotten maybe a quarter inch of slack where the rope crossed my right forearm. Not enough to pull free. Enough that I could press my thumb down and feel the loop give a little before it pulled tight again.
"Time moves even in here," he said. He stepped away from me and walked to the window. It was high and dirty, the kind that hadn't been opened in years. The light coming through was pale now, not as blue. "I didn't think you'd last this long."
I swallowed. My throat was dry from breathing through my mouth. "How long has it been?"
He checked his watch. Not his phone. A black face, leather strap. He didn't tell me the time.
"Long enough," he said. "You keep stalling and you think it's working because you're still talking. It's not."
The bulb overhead buzzed faintly. I stared at the square of light on the floor and tried to count. We'd been in here since he'd pulled the tape off. That felt like an hour, but could have been twenty minutes. The light said forty, maybe fifty. The angle had lifted, which meant afternoon was going. I thought about the parking lot outside, if anyone was looking for me, if my car was still where I'd left it.
Enzo turned back from the window and leaned against a crate, arms crossed. The snake on his neck caught the warm light.
"Here's how this ends," he said. His voice was quieter than before, controlled again. "You want to prove you're tough. You said toughness isn't about taking it. Fine. Show me. You have thirty minutes."
The number landed hard. I felt my heart pick up and I tried not to let it show in my breathing.
"Thirty minutes to what?" I asked.
"To get out of that chair without me letting you out," he said. "Or to convince me you deserve to. You talk, you move, you do whatever you think tough is. But in thirty minutes, if you're still tied there and I've heard nothing worth hearing, I make the call. And someone else comes to decide for us."
My mouth went dry again. "What call?"
"Doesn't matter what call," he said. "Matters that you don't want it made."
I looked down at the rope. The tan fibers were rough against my blue blazer. From above it looked solid, but I knew now where it was loose. On the second loop, left side, he'd left it a little slack when he adjusted it. I'd been working that spot since he'd walked away, rubbing the rope against the edge of the chair where the wood was chipped. Thirty minutes.
I did the math in my head while he watched me. If I could get that quarter inch to a half inch in the next ten minutes, I might be able to twist my wrist enough to get my hand at a better angle. Then maybe another ten to saw at the loop with the wood. That left ten. Not enough. Not if he was paying attention.
He pushed off the crate and came closer, stopped just out of reach.
"You're doing it again," he said. "Thinking instead of doing. Clock started when I said it."
"I heard you," I said. My voice was hoarse.
"Then do something," he said. He crouched so we were eye level. I could see his breathing, slow and even, and the light stubble on his jaw. "Nine twenty-nine was twenty minutes ago. Now it's nine thirty-one."
He'd given me a time. Nine thirty-one. That meant we had until ten o one. The blue light on the wall was still moving, just barely. I held his stare and let my hands keep working where he couldn't see.
"I'm thinking," I said.
"You don't have time to think," he said.
I nodded once. The rope bit into my wrist as I twisted, just a little, testing the give. It held, then gave, then held again. I needed him to look away. I needed the light to move a little more and make the warehouse darker, so the shadows would help me.
May you like
"Okay," I said. "Thirty minutes."
He stood, and the chair creaked as I shifted my weight. The warehouse stayed around us, the bulb still warm, the window still pale, and the slack I'd made still hidden under the loop where his hand had touched it last.
