Page 37 of Oliver

“As if I could do anything,” I said, sounding as pathetic as I could. “Did you split my head open?”

“No. Stop complaining. You’re going to die anyway. Instead of a last meal, I’ll give you your last beer.

I shut my mouth and listened for the door to shut behind him.

As soon as it did, I looked around.

I was in what appeared to be a small apartment.Hisapartment. He’d probably been watching me from here the entire time. I pulled at the rope that had one hand tied, testing for slack. Nothing yet—but I wasn’t done trying.

Somebody had to know. If Tobas were dead, someone would’ve found him by now. Someone would’ve called Oliver. He had to be out there, hunting for me.

I ducked my head just as I heard the front door open again.

“Hey, you awake?” the man asked casually. “I got your beer.”

“Yes,” I rasped. “Can you help me sit up so I can drink it?” My eyes must have lit up when I saw the bottle.

He chuckled. “Did you really think I’d hand you a bottle? You’d just bash my head in with it. I’m not that stupid. You’re lucky I tied only one hand.”

He poured the beer into a plastic cup and then brought it over.

I took it, my hand shaking the entire time, and I drank. God, it was cold. And delicious.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, then set the cup down on the floor beside me. My fingers brushed something near the leg of the bed. A screw? A splintered piece of wood? I was glad that I was on the floor.

Perfect.

All I needed was time.

I waited until he turned his back.

He walked to the kitchen—if you could call a dirty sink and a hot plate a kitchen—and opened a second beer. He leaned against the counter, sipping slowly, watching me like I was a documentary he’d seen before.

I shifted slightly, careful not to draw his attention. The splinter under the bedpost wasn’t much—just a jagged chip of wood—but it might be rough enough. I started rubbing the rope against it, moving in small motions timed with his gulps.

“I would like you to keep your free hand visible at all times.”

So much for getting this unusual knot loose.

“So,” he said casually, “what’s it like to be America’s sweetheart one day and a target the next?”

I didn’t answer.

He took another sip. “You know, I never really got the appeal of swimming. All that effort just to end up in the same place you started.”

Still no answer.

“You’re not very talkative,” he muttered.

“I don’t talk to trash,” I said, keeping my voice flat.

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move. He was enjoying this. The control. The silence. The idea that I was helpless.

Why was I trying to cut a rope on this piece of wood? It wasn’t doing much at all, and I had to sneak in every move when he wasn’t looking.

I glanced down at the plastic cup. Almost empty. If I were to make a move, I’d have to time it perfectly.

“Victor was a coward,” I said, testing him.

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