“Uhn,” Andy tried. The scarf was shoved too far down her throat. She tried to work it out with her tongue.
“If your mom does what she’s supposed to do, you’ll be fine.” Paula took a spool of clothesline out of the bag. She bound Andy’s ankles to the chair leg. “Just in case you get any ideas.”
Andy started to cough. The more she struggled to push out the scarf, the deeper it went.
“You know your dead uncle tried to hang himself with this stuff once?” She reached into the plastic bag again. She found a pair of scissors. She used her teeth to break them out of the packaging. “No, I guess you don’t know. Left a scar on his neck, here—” she used the tip of the scissors to point to her neck, just below a smattering of dark moles.
Andy hoped she had skin cancer.
“Jasper saved him that time.” Paula cut the end of the clothesline. “Andy was always needing saving. Weird that your mom calls you by his name.”
Laura didn’t like to call Andy by her dead brother’s name. She winced every time she used anything other than Andrea.
Paula checked the handcuffs again, then the knots, to make sure they were secure. “All right. I’m gonna pee.” She stuck the scissors into her back pocket. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Andy waited until the bathroom door shut, then she looked for something stupid to do. The burner phone was still on the table. Her hands were out of the question, but maybe she could use her head. She tried to inch the chair forward but the burning was so intense that vomit spilled up her throat.
The scarf pushed it back down.
Fuck.
Andy let her eyes scan the room from floor to ceiling. Ice bucket and plastic cups on the desk under the TV. Water bottles. Trash can. Andy wrapped her fingers around the base of the table. She tested the weight as much as she could. Too heavy. And also, she had a bullet inside her body. Even if she managed to bite back the pain and lift the table, she would fall flat on her face because her ankles were tied to the chair.
The toilet flushed. The sink faucet ran. Paula came out with a towel in her hands. She tossed it onto the desk. Instead of addressing Andy, she sat down on the edge of the bed and watched television.
Andy let her forehead rest on the table. She closed her eyes. She felt a groan vibrate inside of her throat. It was too much. All of it was just too damn much.
Mike was a US marshal.
Her mother was in the witness protection program.
Her birth father was a murderous cult leader.
Edwin Van Wees was dead.
Clara Bellamy—
Andy could still clearly hear the smack that had cut off Clara’s scream.
The click-click-click-click of the revolver’s cylinder.
The ballerina and the lawyer had taken care of Andy for the first two years of her life, and she had not remembered one detail about them.
There was a sound in the hallway.
Andy’s heart jumped. She raised her head.
Two knocks rattled the door, then there was a pause, then another knock.
Paula snorted. “Your mom thinks she’s being sneaky getting here sooner than she said.” She turned off the TV. She pressed her finger to her lips as if Andy was capable of anything but silence.
The revolver was in Paula’s hand by the time she opened the door.
Mom.
Andy started to cry. She couldn’t help it. The relief was so overwhelming that she felt like her heart was going to explode.
Their eyes met.