But it didn’t turn.

And then the footsteps moved away.

Why had Joanne insisted she wait? Bridget’s scalp prickled as she reached out her hand and tentatively touched the handle. It turned. But when she tried to push the door open, it only moved an inch before stopping.

She put her eye to the gap. A piece of twine crossed it. One end seemed to be tied to the bathroom doorknob and the other to a doorknob further down the hall.

But why? Why did Joanne need her trapped in the bathroom?”

“Hey,” Bridget shouted. “Hey!”

Holding her breath, she strained her ears, but no one answered. All she heard was an oddly breezy noise. It sounded like a long exhalation. Or a fan? Then outside, she heard a car door slam. A motor started up. It must be Joanne’s black Honda. And now it sounded like it was slowly moving away.

But the sound inside the house, the sound she’d heard earlier, was getting louder. Crackling. Whooshing. Bridget sniffed. Smoke.

The house was on fire.

It all made sense now. Seeing Bob grievously injured, Joanne had known that it was time to cut and run. She meant for them to die here. Bridget trapped in the bathroom, Bob immobile in the bedroom. Joanne must have unshackled her in case the stainless steel links survived the fire. She was planning on telling a story with the clues the flames would leave behind. A story about two people caught in an accidental house fire. But shackles on a corpse would be hard to explain away.

The fire would burn this cabin to the ground. And after the authorities found the remains of Bob and his researcher, Joanne would explain, with tears in her eyes, how she’d lent them her family cabin so Bob could finish his book. How an errant candle, lit after the power went out, must have burned everything down.

And then the black market for Bob’s last book would go through the roof.

BRIDGET

Too Late

Bridget slammed the bathroom door with her unbruised shoulder until it was as bruised as the other. Kicked it. Ran at it. Each attempt made her gasp with pain, but all it did was stretch the twine a couple of inches. When she tried to squeeze herself through the gap, the space wasn’t nearly big enough.

If only she had the Leatherman tool. Which was a stupid thought. Why not wish for a real pair of scissors—or to not be here in the first place?

Then Bridget realized she did have a tool: her teeth. Squishing her face into the gap, she pressed forward until the door’s sharp edge on one side and the slightly rounded edge of the frame on the other felt like they might crack her cheekbones.