Chapter 6: The Chair
The chair was the only thing holding me up and the only thing holding me down. I had stopped thinking of it as furniture. It was part of the rope now.
My weight had settled into it for what felt like an hour. The seat was hard wood, no cushion, varnish worn thin where my thighs pressed. I could feel the grain through the thin fabric of my suit pants, a raised line running front to back under my left leg. The rope crossed over that grain, biting into my blazer, tying my torso and arms to the chair's back. My hands were bound behind me, wrists against the rear slats. I couldn't see the chair but I could map it.
Enzo had stepped back after the last exchange. He stood a few feet away near the edge of the warm bulb's circle, watching me. The warehouse smelled like dust and old oil and damp wood. The crates stacked behind him made the space feel smaller than it was.
I needed to know what I was tied to.
I pressed my feet flat against the concrete. My shoes were low block heels, not much traction. I shifted my weight slightly to the left, just an inch, and felt the front left leg take more pressure. It didn't wobble. I shifted right. Same. Solid. I tried to flex my shoulders back against the rope and the chair back. The wood creaked, a tiny sound, but didn't give. The chair was heavy. Not folding metal, not cheap. Real oak, or something like it. The kind that belonged in a dining room, not a warehouse.
I inhaled slowly through my nose and let my fingertips, trapped behind me, brush the back slat. It was smooth but dusty, a thick vertical piece with a cross brace. I could feel where the rope had been looped and the wood was slightly indented from the pull. Someone had taken time with this.
"You comfortable?" Enzo said. His voice was low, even. He hadn't moved.
I didn't answer right away. My mouth was dry. I swallowed. "It's sturdy," I said.
He tilted his head a little. "It should be."
That was the choice point. I understood it as clearly as if he'd laid it out. If I stayed still, I kept what little psychological ground I'd gained in the last few minutes. He was off-balance and watching, but not crowding me. If I moved, if I tested the chair for real, I'd make noise, and he'd close the distance. I would trade quiet for information.
I chose noise.
I planted both feet and pushed hard to the right, rocking my weight. The chair legs scraped against concrete, a sharp, loud screech that cut through the quiet. It was louder than I expected. My heart slammed so hard I felt it in my throat. The chair lifted on two legs for half a second and then slammed back down. The rope jerked tight against my ribs and shoulders, burning. The tape he'd peeled off was still in his hand, a black strip curled around his fingers.
Enzo moved before the echo faded.
He was beside me in two steps. He didn't grab the rope. He put one hand on the back of the chair, right over where my wrists were, and one hand on the arm of the chair near my elbow. Caging it. Caging me. His face was close again, I could see the snake tattoo on his neck catch the warm light, the stubble on his jaw, his breathing steady while mine had gone fast and shallow.
"So you do want to test it," he said.
The chair hadn't broken. It hadn't even cracked. It had held my full weight rocking on two legs and dropped me without splintering. That told me everything. I couldn't tip it. I couldn't break it by thrashing. My shoulders ached from where the rope had pulled. The wood grain pressed harder into the back of my thighs.
"I wanted to see if it would move," I said. My voice shook, and I hated that it did.
"It moves," he said. "You move with it."
He kept his hand on the chair back, his knuckles almost touching my bound hands. He wasn't squeezing, just holding the chair steady, making sure I felt that it wasn't going anywhere and neither was I. His eyes stayed on mine, no smirk now. Just that controlled, intense stare he'd had from the start.
I stopped trying to push. I let my feet settle again and focused on breathing, in through my nose, out through my mouth. The tears had dried on my cheeks but my face still felt tight. The overhead bulb hummed faintly above us.
Enzo didn't step away. He stayed close, one hand still on the chair, his weight shifted forward like he was ready for me to try again. The watch had tightened. Before, he'd given me space. Now there would be no rocking without his hands on me, no testing without his eyes on my feet.
May you like
"Don't waste energy on the wood, Mary River," he said, quieter. "It won't help you."
I looked up at him and didn't answer. The chair was solid under me. My limits had been confirmed in that one screech of wood on concrete. But I'd learned its weight, its balance, and I'd learned that noise brought him closer, every time.
