Chapter 8 - The Signal Sent
|
I had laughed that afternoon when Dad showed me the underside of the silver band. He had told me there was a tiny, microscopic emergency button hidden perfectly beneath the clasp.
"You worry too much, Dad," I had teased him, rolling my eyes at his enduring paranoia.
He hadn't laughed. His eyes had been dead serious, carrying the weight of a man who knew exactly how evil the world could be. "If you ever get into trouble and can't reach your phone, press this twice and call my name. Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, I'll hear you."
At the time, I had dismissed it as just another charming example of an overprotective father refusing to accept that his daughter was grown and safe in her quiet suburban life. Now, as I bled onto my own living room floor, I realized that paranoid gift might be the only reason I survived the night.
With shaking, bloodstained fingers, I reached behind my back, feeling beneath the torn, ragged sleeve of my ruined dress.
My bracelet was still there.
They had taken my cell phone. They had tied my wrists with industrial plastic. They had chained my ankle to a load-bearing pillar and planned every sadistic detail of my murder. But in their supreme arrogance, they had overlooked one tiny, insignificant piece of jewelry.
Brandon stood up and turned away to laugh at a joke one of the guests made.
I pressed the clasp.
Once.
Twice.
I twisted my bound wrists, bringing the silver band as close to my mouth as physically possible, praying the hidden microphone had activated.
"Dad..." I whispered into the metal.
May you like
Brandon suddenly stopped laughing. He turned around, his eyes locking onto my awkward posture.
"Help me..."
