I look back at the handcuff and try contorting my hand, pushing my thumb up against my palm, and pulling. But it’s no use. My hand is too big and now it’s red and there’s a bruised mark around my wrist from the pressure. I think back to the details about Matilde in the paper: damage to her wrist believed to have been caused by some sort of restraint…

Shit. Shit. Shit.

But think, Harper, think. Even if I do get out, what then?

I look across at the covered windows, to the locked door and then the rusty kitchenette: there must be something, somewhere in here, that I can use.

I close my eyes and steady my thoughts. I can do this. I will do this. I cannot just sit here and wait for him to come back with his special collection of Dexter knives, or whatever he’s gone to get, and kill me.

I edge over to the side of the bed and look down at the floor. There’s a Tupperware with a note: if you need to pee.

It seems like an oddly humane gesture all things considered, but then a mattress full of urine would require more of a clean-up.

I do need to pee, but I don’t want to pee in that.

I push the Tupperware aside and look under the bed. There might be something I can use hidden under there. But no, just: dust, hair and an old tennis ball.

Nothing thin and bendy I could use to pick this lock.

I look back at the Tupperware.

Fuck it.

Two minutes later I’m drip-drying, negotiating the awkwardness that is being cuffed to a bedpost while trying to pee.

And then I hear it: tyres pulling over dirt. The whirr of an engine. My heart speeds up.

He’s back.

The engine stops. A car door slams outside and I lie back down, pretending to be asleep. The room is filled with the metallic clicking of him unlocking the door…

The door creaks and opens: a gush of cool, sweet air. The crinkling of plastic. I open my eyes just a crack: he’s carrying a small bag of what look like groceries and my handbag. I watch his caramel hair gleam in the light as he moves inside.

He ignores me, going over to the counter where he starts unpacking things: a newspaper, some chocolate, orange juice and plastic cups.

And as I watch him, I realise how alone I am out here. Nobody is going to find me. I’m not going to get out of this.

Of course. Of course this is where it ends. The how-not-to-get-murdered girl gets murdered.

Thank you, life, for your sardonic wit.