Page 125 of Fire Fight

I want to hold on to my last shreds of hope.

My tongue works against the tape, using saliva to loosen the edges until the muscles ache. Arnold has left the room by the time I earn a gap for my hard work. Eventually, I snag the edge with my teeth, nibbling until it splits, and the thrust of my tongue forces it apart.

“Please, Arnold,” I shout, hearing him moving in the lobby. “Just tell us what you want us to do, and we’ll do it. You don’t need to use force.”

I try to repeat my success on the tape binding my arms, but it’s wound so tightly, all I do is pull the material until it bunches, digging further into my skin.

“If you want to run, that’s cool. Fly overseas and we’ll wait however long you like before we tell anyone.”

“Shut your mouth or I’ll come in there and shut it,” he yells, sounding more unhinged with every passing second.

My head gives a sickening thump, making the world swim. My throat aches, inflamed where Arnold choked me. I tilt my head back to open the airway, panicking that my windpipe might swell until it closes.

There’s a splash and the acrid stench of petrol fills my nostrils.

The world dims again as my pulse races, taking me to the edge of blackout while the struggle against my bonds uses the last of my air.

Not again.

I can’t do this again.

My wrists are as raw as they were the day I fought to get free of the batting cage. Lights flash in my vision as I struggle to get enough oxygen, fighting my panic as much as I’m fighting to get free.

“Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”

“I told you to shut your mouth.”

Arnold stalks back into the room, swinging his hand.

The slap is so hard, half my face goes numb. My right ear is ringing. The skin of my cheek feels way too tight.

And my mother spits out her gag. “Arnold, please. Don’t hurt my daughter.”

“Mum? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling.” Her voice sounds artificially bright. “Come on, honey. This isn’t you. I know you don’t want to hurt us. Let Cadence go and we can talk about it. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

With a grunt, Arnold lifts the huge petrol can and tips it over her shoulders, the smell biting into my nose, singing the hairs with its chemical sting.

Mum shrieks and my panic explodes.

My worst nightmare has come to life.

I can’t hold in the screams. Shouting and crying until my vocal cords are strained and tattered, my frantic calls for help reduced to throaty whispers.

I can’t do this again!!!

“Please. We can help you. Tell us what to say to the police and we’ll say it. Nobody ever has to know you killed Maggie.”

Mum gasps and I choke out, “Please,” trying to cover the sound.

Thoughts race through my head, memories stuffing it to bursting as I mount a frantic search through everything I’ve ever experienced, trying to find another angle.

There must be something.

A magic word or phrase to bring this madness to an end.

Arnold upends the can on me, petrol splashing as it gushes from the nozzle. It soaks into my clothes, cold against my skin, making every small abrasion sting.

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