Pepper spray first, apologize later.
–Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder episode 44
Bethany
My head hurts.
So does my neck. And my arms. And my legs. Also my wrists. I hurt everywhere. Even my nose hairs are aching.
Something is banging.
Not this again.
I blink my eyes open against brightness. All of the lights in the apartment are on.
Natalie is down the hall, ripping the wall next to the closet to shreds with a sledgehammer.
I can’t move my arms. I’m sitting in one of the wooden dining room chairs, arms strapped behind me and held together by something I can’t see. My hands are numb. I wiggle them and test the restraints but I can’t tell if I’m making any progress.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
She ignores me and keeps wrenching.
“If you’re searching for something specific, maybe I can help you.”
“Shut up. This isn’t a movie. I’m not telling you anything.” She goes back to pulling apart the drywall.
Dammit. What am I supposed to do with an atypical villain?
Think, Bethany, think!
I’m obsessed with true crime. I’m practically an expert on how to get out of untenable situations.
I wrench against the restraints more. They’re too tight. I can’t get out of them. But the chair is pretty flimsy. Maybe I can get her distracted enough to stand and fall backward, break the chair.
What the hell is she doing here? How can I distract her?
Sam said an old Mafia dude lived here and hid something.
It’s worth a shot.
“Are you looking for that old lockbox?”
Banging stops. Natalie leans out of the wall, eyes locked on mine. “Box?”
“Yeah. I found it in the cranny in the closet when I first moved in.”
Her eyes narrow.
She grips the hammer tighter in her hand and stalks toward me. “Where is it?”
I’ve hit a nerve. Jackpot.
“Untie me and I’ll show you.”
“No. Tell me where it is, then I’ll leave and send Steven to untie you when I’m out of the country.”
Damn her. I have to get her out of the apartment long enough to try and break out of this shit.
Time. I need time.
“I put it down in storage. I thought maybe it belonged to the person I’m renting from.”
“Where’s your storage key?”
“In my purse.”
Before she leaves, she grabs a roll of duct tape and approaches me with a determined stride.
“No.” I try to avoid it, twisting my head from one side to another, then back and forth until she basically crawls in my lap and forces me to stay still long enough to slap the tape on.
Bitch.
As soon as she leaves, I’m wiggling. I have to get out of this chair. I need to break out of these bonds before she realizes I’m lying and comes back with something worse than tape.
I strain and huff against my bonds. This bitch is good at tying knots. Fuck her.
It takes about two minutes to get down to the basement. Maybe another five to find the locker and discover there ain’t shit in there but some old boxes of clothes Gwen left behind.
Then another two minutes to come back up and murder me. Probably less because she’s gonna be pissed and running.
That’s nine minutes.
I jerk against the bonds.
Tears of frustration fill my eyes and I blink them away. I don’t have time for emotions right now. I need to get out of here. There’s still so much I need to do with my life. I can’t let it all be taken away by a seemingly nice brunette with a sledgehammer. I want to see my mother get sober. I want to see my friends . . . and Brent at least one more time. I want to get an awesome job and tell Mr. Crawford to shove his misogyny up his ass.
Someone stomps down the hall.
How much time has passed? I have no idea.
Oh shit.