Chapter 2 - Three Screws Between Me and Freedom
The screw hit the tile with a tiny metallic click.
To anyone else, it would have been almost nothing.
To me, it sounded like a gunshot.
I stopped breathing.
Andrew's footsteps paused halfway down the staircase.
For several seconds, the only sound inside the house was rain.
I stared at the screw beside my hand.
Please.
Please keep walking.
Please believe I'm still where you left me.
A shadow appeared against the hallway wall.
I tightened my fingers around the bottle opener.
Then Andrew spoke.
“Mom?”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
No answer.
A moment later, another voice came from upstairs.
Margaret.
“What?”
“Did you hear something?”
My entire body went rigid.
“What?”
“I thought I heard metal.”
Silence.
Then Margaret said, “Probably the storm.”
Andrew remained on the stairs.
I imagined him turning the corner.
Seeing the empty spot beside the kitchen island.
Seeing me beside the door.
Understanding immediately.
I had no weapon.
No phone.
No ability to run.
If he found me now, the rusty bottle opener would become proof that I'd tried to escape.
And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that there would not be another chance.
I slowly lowered my head against the cabinet.
Andrew took another step.
Then another.
He reached the bottom.
I could hear him only feet away.
I looked around desperately.
The dishwasher.
The pantry.
The island.
Nowhere to hide.
Then the refrigerator compressor clicked on.
Andrew stopped.
“You okay?” Margaret called.
“Yeah.”
He entered the living room instead.
A second later, I heard the unmistakable sound of the refrigerator opening.
He had come downstairs for water.
I nearly sobbed from relief.
I didn't move.
Andrew opened a bottle.
Drank.
The refrigerator closed.
His footsteps returned toward the stairs.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Then stopped.
Again.
I pressed myself against the cabinet.
“Emily?”
My blood turned to ice.
He waited.
I said nothing.
“Emily?”
Another pause.
Then Andrew laughed quietly.
“If you're awake, don't start anything.”
His footsteps continued upstairs.
A bedroom door closed.
I waited another full minute.
Then two.
Only when the house became silent again did I lift my head.
Three screws.
I moved to the second.
This one was tighter.
The bottle opener slipped repeatedly, cutting the side of my thumb.
I didn't care.
Every second mattered.
I twisted.
And twisted.
The screw moved.
Minutes later, it fell.
Two left.
My injured leg throbbed so violently that black spots floated across my vision.
I rested my forehead against the door.
Stay awake.
The third screw came out faster.
The fourth refused.
I almost screamed.
The metal was corroded so badly that the groove had nearly disappeared.
I repositioned the opener.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
“Come on.”
I whispered it through clenched teeth.
“Please.”
The opener slipped.
My knuckles slammed into the door.
I froze.
No footsteps.
I tried again.
This time, the screw shifted.
Barely.
But enough.
I turned it.
A quarter rotation.
Then another.
Five minutes later, the final screw landed beside the others.
I pulled at the grate.
It didn't move.
My heart sank.
I tugged harder.
Paint had sealed the edges.
“No.”
I wedged the bottle opener beneath one corner.
Pried.
The metal groaned.
I stopped.
Waited.
Then pulled again.
The grate snapped loose.
Cold rain-scented air rushed through the opening.
I almost cried.
The hole was small.
Too small for my body.
But large enough for my arm.
I reached through.
My shoulder pressed painfully against the lower door panel.
My fingertips found nothing.
I stretched farther.
Nothing.
The locking mechanism was higher than I'd hoped.
I shifted.
Pain exploded through my leg.
A scream escaped before I could stop it.
I froze.
Nothing upstairs.
I reached again.
My fingers brushed metal.
The deadbolt.
Almost.
Another inch.
My shoulder felt like it would tear.
I stretched.
My fingertips touched the turn knob.
I pushed.
It slipped.
Again.
Again.
Then—
Click.
The deadbolt rotated.
I stared.
Unlocked.
I could not believe it.
I pulled my arm back and reached for the door handle.
Locked.
A second lock.
Of course.
Andrew had installed it months earlier.
A sliding security latch positioned high above the regular handle.
He'd said it was because of neighborhood break-ins.
I stared upward.
From the floor, there was no way I could reach it.
My hope collapsed.
Then lightning flashed again.
Beside the door hung Margaret's decorative umbrella stand.
Tall.
Metal.
Heavy.
Inside were three umbrellas and a wooden walking cane Harold occasionally used when his knee hurt.
The cane.
I dragged myself toward it.
Every movement felt like broken glass inside my leg.
I reached.
Too far.
Again.
My fingers brushed the umbrella stand.
I pulled.
It tipped.
Metal crashed against tile.
Umbrellas scattered.
The sound was enormous.
A light immediately came on upstairs.
“No,” I whispered.
Footsteps.
Fast this time.
I grabbed the cane.
The staircase creaked.
Andrew shouted, “Emily!”
No more hiding.
I pushed the cane upward toward the security latch.
Missed.
Footsteps reached the hallway.
Again.
The curved handle struck the latch.
It moved.
Andrew entered the kitchen doorway.
For one second, neither of us moved.
His face changed.
Confusion.
Then realization.
Then rage.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I hooked the latch with the cane.
Pulled.
It released.
Andrew lunged.
I threw open the door.
Rain exploded into the kitchen.
Cold water hit my face.
I dragged myself over the threshold.
Andrew grabbed my ankle.
The injured one.
Pain detonated through my body.
I screamed.
“Get back inside!”
I kicked with my right foot.
My heel caught his shoulder.
He lost his grip.
I crawled onto the wet patio.
Rain soaked me instantly.
The backyard stretched ahead, dark and fenced.
The gate.
Thirty yards away.
Impossible.
Andrew stepped outside.
“Emily, stop!”
I kept crawling.
Mud covered my hands.
My leg dragged uselessly behind me.
“Stop acting insane!”
He sounded angry enough to kill me.
I reached the grass.
Andrew grabbed the back of my shirt.
I screamed as loudly as I could.
“HELP!”
He clamped a hand over my mouth.
“Shut up.”
I bit him.
Hard.
He cursed and pulled away.
“HELP ME!”
A light came on in the neighboring house.
Andrew froze.
Another light.
Then a porch light.
A man's voice called from beyond the fence.
“Everything okay over there?”
Andrew grabbed my arm.
I screamed again.
“CALL 911!”
Silence.
Then the neighbor shouted, “I'm calling!”
Andrew's grip loosened.
The calculation returned to his face.
He knew.
If police arrived and saw me like this, there was no easy explanation.
He stood.
“You fell.”
I stared at him through the rain.
“What?”
“You fell down the stairs.”
I almost laughed.
He pointed at me.
“That's what happened.”
The back door opened.
Margaret appeared in her robe.
Her face went white when she saw lights turning on around the neighborhood.
“Andrew!”
Sirens sounded faintly in the distance.
For the first time that night, fear appeared on Margaret's face.
Not fear for me.
Fear for herself.
Andrew stepped backward.
“Remember what happened,” he said.
I stared at him.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Emily.”
“No.”
The sirens grew louder.
Blue light reflected faintly against the wet sky.
I dragged myself toward the fence.
Andrew didn't stop me.
He couldn't anymore.
A neighbor appeared at the gate holding an umbrella.
Behind him, his wife spoke urgently into a phone.
“Oh my God,” the man whispered when he saw my leg.
“Don't touch her,” his wife said. “The ambulance is coming.”
The gate opened.
For the first time in months, someone entered that yard whom Andrew hadn't approved.
The neighbor knelt beside me.
“Ma'am, you're safe.”
Safe.
I had forgotten what the word meant.
Police cruisers arrived first.
Then paramedics.
Everything became flashing lights and voices.
A female officer crouched beside me.
“What happened?”
Andrew stepped forward immediately.
“She fell.”
I looked at him.
The officer looked at me.
“Ma'am?”
My mouth trembled.
Years of conditioning screamed inside me.
Don't embarrass him.
Don't upset Margaret.
Don't make trouble.
Then I remembered the rolling pin.
The laughter.
The dinner.
Tomorrow we'll say she tripped.
She quits her job.
We keep a tight leash on her.
I looked directly at the officer.
“My mother-in-law hit me with a rolling pin.”
Andrew's face changed.
Margaret gasped.
I kept going.
“She hit me three times. The last one broke my leg.”
“Emily!”
The officer stood.
“Sir, step back.”
Andrew lifted his hands.
“My wife is emotional.”
“I said step back.”
A second officer approached him.
I pointed toward the kitchen.
“The rolling pin is inside.”
Margaret screamed, “She's lying!”
The officer beside me asked another question.
“Did anyone prevent you from seeking medical care?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
I looked at Andrew.
“My husband.”
Andrew stopped speaking.
The paramedics lifted me onto a stretcher.
I cried out despite myself.
One of them squeezed my hand.
“We've got you.”
They wheeled me through the gate.
Rain fell across my face.
As the ambulance doors opened, I looked back.
Andrew stood beneath the porch light speaking rapidly to police.
Margaret was shouting.
Harold had appeared behind her in pajamas.
Three people who had controlled every door in my life suddenly stood surrounded by officers.
The ambulance doors closed.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, Andrew couldn't follow me.
At the hospital, doctors confirmed what I already knew.
A severe fracture.
Possible nerve damage.
Surgery before morning.
But another person arrived before they took me upstairs.
Detective Lena Morales.
She pulled a chair beside my bed.
“Emily,” she said gently, “I need to ask you something.”
I looked at her.
She opened a clear evidence bag.
Inside was my passport.
My birth certificate.
Two debit cards.
And a small notebook.
“We found these locked inside your husband's study.”
My heart began pounding.
“There's something else.”
She opened the notebook.
Numbers.
Dates.
Amounts.
My name appeared repeatedly.
So did the phrase life insurance.
Detective Morales looked at me carefully.
“Emily, did you know your husband increased a life insurance policy on you three months ago?”
I couldn't breathe.
“How much?”
She hesitated.
“Two million dollars.”
Suddenly, my broken leg no longer seemed like the worst thing waiting for me.
May you like
Because the police were beginning to suspect that the family hadn't merely intended to keep me trapped.
They may have been preparing for a future in which I didn't survive at all.
