My feet are bare, to minimize any sound. Cautiously looking around, I slide open one of the drawers and take out a large butcher knife. Testing it with my finger, I determine that it’s sharp.

A weapon. Perfect.

The sundress that I’m wearing has a slim belt at the waist, and I use it to tie the knife to myself at the back. It’s a very crude holster, but it holds the knife in place. I hope I don’t cut my butt with the naked blade, but even if I do, it’s a risk worth taking.

A large ceramic vase is my next acquisition. It’s heavy enough that I can barely lift it over my head with two arms. I can’t imagine a human skull would be a match for something like this.

Once I have those two things, I go look for Beth.

I find her on the porch, curled up with a book on a long, comfy-looking outdoor couch, enjoying the fresh air and the beautiful ocean view. She doesn’t look when I poke my head outside through the open door, and I quickly go back in, trying to figure out what to do next.

My plan is simple. I need to catch Beth off-guard and bash her over the head with the vase. Maybe tie her up with something. Then I could use the knife to threaten her into letting me contact the outside world. This way, by the time Julian returns, I could already be rescued and pressing charges.

All I need now is a good spot for my ambush.

Looking around, I notice a little nook near the kitchen entrance. If you’re coming in off the porch—like I think Beth will be—then you don’t really see anything in that nook. It’s not the best place to conceal oneself, but it’s better than attacking her openly. I go there and press myself flat against the wall, the vase standing on the floor next to me where I can easily grab it.

Taking a deep breath, I try to still the fine trembling in my hands. I’m not a violent person, yet here I am, about to smash this vase into Beth’s head. I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t help picturing her skull split open, blood and gore everywhere, like in some horror movie. The image makes me ill. I tell myself that it won’t be like that, that she’ll most likely end up with a nasty bruise or a mild concussion.

The wait seems interminable. It goes on and on, each second stretching like an hour. My heart is pounding and I’m sweating, even though the temperature in the house is much cooler than the heat outside.

Finally, after what feels like several hours, I hear Beth’s footsteps. Grabbing the vase, I carefully lift it over my head and hold my breath as Beth steps through the open door leading from the porch.

As she walks by me, I grip the vase tightly and bring it down on her head.