Chapter 6 - The Sneaker Under the Table
The pain in her lower back was sharpening into a steady, rhythmic ache. Emma knew enough about prenatal physiology to understand that prolonged stress, restricted breathing, and physical restraint could trigger preliminary uterine irritability. She needed to get out of the chair. She needed to lie down on her left side, drink cold water, and call her obstetrician.
She tested the rope around her left wrist again.
When Daniel had tied the second turn of the square knot, her left arm had been twisted slightly inward. By slowly, imperceptibly rotating her left thumb toward her palm, she realized she could create a millimeter of clearance between her skin and the main strand of jute. It was tiny—scarcely enough to shift a feather—but it was space.
She began to work her wrist in microscopic increments, moving only when the room was distracted by the noise of silver cups hitting saucers.
Then, something touched the toe of her leather boot beneath the white linen tablecloth.
Emma froze.
It was not the sharp edge of a chair leg or Daniel’s polished dress shoe. It was a soft, rubber-soled sneaker, tapping lightly against her instep.
She lifted her head slightly, her hair falling over her face to hide her eyes.
Standing near the darkened corner by the display cabinet was nine-year-old Noah. He was Caroline’s son—a pale, quiet boy with oversized ears and broad, serious eyes who usually spent family gatherings sitting in a corner with a sketchbook, ignored by his mother until it was time to pose for group pictures.
Noah was dressed in a small blazer and short trousers that looked far too restrictive for him. His face was gray, his small mouth drawn into a tight, hard line. He was looking directly at Emma’s feet.
He didn't make a sound. He didn't look at his mother, who was busy arranging the coffee urn, nor at his uncle Daniel, who was taking another tiny bite of cake.
Noah slid his foot back toward the dark space beneath the dining table hem.
Emma looked down through the gap between her knees and the edge of the tablecloth.
Resting on the dark hardwood floor, directly beside her left boot, was her missing cell phone.
The screen was dark, but as she watched, a tiny white notification light blinked in the upper corner.
Noah had somehow slipped behind Daniel’s chair while Daniel was reaching for his water glass, reached into the unbuttoned side of his jacket, pulled the phone from the inner pocket, and dropped it beneath the table without a single adult noticing.
Emma’s breath hitched in her throat.
She looked up at Noah through her dark fringe of hair. The nine-year-old boy gave her a single, deliberate nod. Then he slid his hands into his blazer pockets, stepped backward into the shadows near the locked service door, and stood still as a stone statue.
Emma shifted her left foot carefully, gliding her boot over the cool glass surface of the phone.
She felt the edge of the device with her heel. She couldn't pick it up with her hands—her wrists were still tied behind the back splats—but she could maneuver it.
She used the side of her boot to rotate the phone until the top edge was pointing directly out toward the center of the room, beneath the draping edge of the tablecloth.
As her heel brushed the side button, the screen flared to life under the dark linen canopy.
The voice recorder application was active.
A bright red line was pulsing rhythmically across the black screen, and a red digital timer was climbing steadily: 00:14:22... 00:14:23... 00:14:24...
Noah hadn't just retrieved her phone.
He had unlocked it using the simple four-digit PIN he had seen her tap in dozens of times while playing games on her tablet, opened the recording app, hit start, and dropped it beside her shoe before any of the adults had even looked down from their cake.
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For the first time in two hours, the freezing cold in Emma’s chest began to give way to a white-hot, furious warmth.
She wasn't helpless anymore.
