Chapter 4 - The Geometry of Terror
The child blinked rapidly, her pupils shrinking under the harsh chandelier light.
She looked at the waitress in the black uniform.
She lifted her hands.
The thick, coarse rope binding her wrists was stark and ugly under the golden light, contrasting violently with the delicate pink of her shirt and bows.
"Help me!"
The cry was a physical force, desperate and entirely broken.
The waitress staggered backward.
Her heel bumped against the leg of the console table.
A single drop of champagne spilled over the rim of a flute, landing on the silver tray with a quiet tap.
Her eyes darted from the heavy rope, to the tear-stained red cheeks, and back to the rope.
"Oh my god."
The words slipped out of the waitress’s mouth, hollow and completely devoid of air.
Water instantly pooled along her lower lash line, blurring her vision of the trapped child.
She reached her hand forward, her fingers trembling, aiming for the knot of the rough rope.
A sharp, clicking sound echoed from the far end of the marble hallway.
Click. Click. Click.
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It was the sound of a stiletto heel striking the polished stone with absolute, measured authority.
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