BooksBarbecue
Back Nana
Chapters (70)
  1. Title page
  2. Prologue
  3. Part One
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. Part Two
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. Part Three
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. Get on the Mailing List!
  69. Also by Brandon Massey
  70. About Brandon Massey

She turned to the nightstand on her side of the bed. Stretching, she grasped the handle of the drawer, tugged it open.

She didn’t have sufficient range of motion to peer inside of the drawer, but she could get her fingers in there. Her fingertips scrabbled through the contents. She felt loose coins, a small bottle of something, a pencil, random slips of paper. Nothing with a cutting edge.

Troy had a matching small table on his side of the bed. She got that drawer open and performed another blind search. Coins, foil-wrapped condoms, keys, a watch. Nothing useful to her present circumstances.

She dropped back onto the pillows, panting, sweat pouring into her eyes. She flicked away the moisture with the bedsheet.

Look around the room again.

The wheeled serving cart on which Grace had delivered her breakfast was still in the bedroom. It stood beside Troy’s nightstand. Grace had been in such a hurry to leave for her mysterious appointment that she hadn’t cleared the dishes, either.

Monica remembered a sharp knife among the flatware Grace had brought in. She had used it to halve the biscuit she had served Monica.

But the cart was out of reach. There was no way to pull it toward her with her hands alone.

She sat up in the bed, thoughts racing.

If her arm was too short to snag the cart handle, she needed to extend her reach.

The tangled bedsheet lay against her legs. She grasped one corner of it. The fabric was sodden with cold sweat.

She dug into her nightstand drawer again and extracted the pencil. It was new, with a length of about seven or so inches.

She glanced at the serving cart, assessed the dimensions of the narrow gap between the handle grip and the flat surface of the cart.

This can work.

The clock flashed 11:45. Time was galloping past.

She yanked the bedsheet from underneath her body, freeing it from the mattress. She knotted about six feet worth of the sheet, tailored it into a long braid.

Next, she tied the corner of the bedsheet around the center of the pencil. It required several attempts. Her fingers trembled and ached, and she lacked her usual hand-eye coordination. But she finally got it done.

Now, to hook it.

Carefully, she inched to the edge of the bed, as far as she could go without the noose choking her out. Holding the corner of the sheet in one hand, the pencil dangling from the knotted tip, she pitched it toward the serving cart.

The pencil clattered to the floor.

She almost laughed. She wasn’t even close.

She reeled it in, and tried it again.

It bounced against the edge of the cart. Close, but no cigar.

She pulled in several deep breaths. She was drenched in sweat, her entire body throbbing in pain. But she hadn’t felt so invigorated in days.

Desperation was the cure for fatigue.