rush of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking as I circle the room, looking for a weapon, or something I can use to pick the lock. I pause at the window and peer through sheer white curtains. I hadn’t taken the time to really study my surroundings outside this room, so I whip the curtain aside and stare out over the area making up the backyard.
To call it a ‘backyard’ seems like an insult. Carved through the landscaped grass is a pool with the bluest water I’ve ever seen away from the ocean. Chairs and umbrellas are arranged around it, and a few pathways lead to other parts of the oasis—a pergola covering a table and chairs, an outdoor kitchen complete with grill and smoker, a bar where I can imagine someone making drinks during a party, a bathhouse. The whole thing is surrounded by fencing, but from this height I see clear, open land. It eventually gives way to the country club golf course, which takes up most of the center of the island. I can’t see any neighboring houses from here, but I know they’re out there. This neighborhood is arranged around the golf course in a circular pattern, which means there are several houses to the right and left of me.
All the residents of this island aren’t mobsters and hardened criminals. I only know this because when a celebrity, politician, or rich heiress builds or buys a house on Indian Creek it gets publicized in the news. If I find my way to one of the neighbors, maybe I can convince someone to get me off this island. If nothing else, I can sneak onto someone’s boat at the dock. One of them has to be headed to the mainland at some point.
Making a run for it when there are so many unknown variables at play is risky. But I refuse to sit here and wait for death. If I don’t at least try to escape, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life—however short it promises to be.
My room is on the third floor, but there’s what I assume to be a covered patio right below it. The patio covering is probably about twelve feet below me. The thought of breaking a limb or bashing my head open makes me wince, but it’s just another risk I’ll have to take. The only other way out of this room is the door, and I know less about what to expect on the other side than I do about what’s outside the window.
I wait until Antonella delivers my lunch and my daytime guard locks the door behind her. Ignoring the tray, I then race to the bed and start tearing the comforter and sheets off it.
“Bless you, Mariana,” I whisper, retrieving the tiny scissors from the manicure kit she gave me.
Kneeling on the floor, I cut and tear at the sheets, then tie my fabric together to make a rope. Glancing periodically through the window, I notice that beyond the fence, two men patrol from opposite directions. Each are dressed in black and wearing sunglasses, armed with frightening-looking rifle. They pause to chat for a minute before continuing on and disappearing from sight. After ripping down the curtains—because I’m certain my sheets tied together aren’t long enough—I stand at the window and wait for them to reappear, counting the seconds. They must be on a patrol of the entire perimeter because it takes them about five minutes to come back, meeting in the middle just like before.
Two guards, a five-minute opening to climb from the window while they’re out of sight, then another five to get over the fence before they come around again. From there, I’ll have to run hard and fast. No looking back.
Clenching my teeth so hard my jaw aches, I go to work on the curtains. By the time I have them shredded and added to my tether, the guards have come around twice more. I would probably work a lot faster if I didn’t flinch at every noise, prepared to hide my little project in case someone comes barreling through the door.
I tie my rope as tight as I can around one of the bedposts, tugging and leaning and dropping to the floor to test it with my weight. The furniture in this room is old but well-preserved—the kind of thing my abuela would say doesn’t get made anymore. It’ll hold my weight just fine.