Page 271 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A cruel little promise.

I stretch until my muscles scream, the bindings cutting deep into my skin, but I can’t reach it.

My fingers graze empty air.

Gritting my teeth, I search the ground.

Splintered wood.

Broken off from one of the rotting floorboards.

I shimmy down awkwardly, scraping my palms raw against the stone as I wedge the shard of wood between my fingers.

Using it like a makeshift hook, I aim for the scalpel.

The first attempt sends it clattering farther away, the high-pitched ring of metal on stone scraping across my nerves.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper, desperation bleeding into the words.

Sweat slides down my temple, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it shaking the knots at my ankles.

I refuse to stop. To give up.

I hook the splinter again, dragging it with painstaking care, inch by inch.

Closer. Closer?—

The tip of the scalpel catches the wood.

I hold my breath as I pull, slow and steady, until the blade scrapes across the ground toward me.

With trembling fingers, I drop the splinter and fumble the scalpel into my hands.

Clutch it tight between my bound palms, hiding it beneath the folds of my sleeves.

A weapon.

A chance.

A promise to myself.

I’ve come too far to die like this.

I press the edge of the scalpel against the rope, my hands trembling so badly it keeps slipping.

The fibers are stubborn, the blade too small. Every sawing pull frays the rope a little more, but not fast enough.

I don’t have time.

The thud of boots echoes beyond the stone door, and instinct flares sharp and blinding inside me.

I hide the scalpel behind my forearm just as a shadow darkens the tiny reinforced window.

I go still.

Still in the way prey goes when it knows it’s already been seen.

The firelight dances across his face, and my stomach plummets.

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