No, it had to be something like a wound. Painful but if it was stitched up she could still move around.
For a moment she paused, looking down at herself, thinking. Then her gaze went to her reddened wrists. A cut there, yes. If she did it right and timed it correctly, she’d bleed a lot and he’d have to get her to the hospital quickly, but if they stitched her up, she’d probably be okay sooner than if she’d poisoned herself.
What are you? A fucking idiot?
Yes, she probably was. A desperate fucking idiot.
Without letting herself think too deeply about it again, Violet started going through the kitchen drawers. He’d already told her there wasn’t anything sharp there, but she searched anyway and sure enough, she turned up nothing.
Undeterred, she started searching the rest of the apartment. If there wasn’t a handy knife, she’d find something else to cut herself with. There had to be something, for God’s sake. Weren’t people always being taken to the hospital for getting injured by seemingly innocuous things? Like tea cozies or chairs or stuff like that?
Yet half an hour later, she still hadn’t turned up anything.
Cursing, she went back into the bathroom she’d already searched at least twice, upending the box of medical supplies Elijah had used the day before, and going through them once again. God, she’d even be happy with some nail clippers at this rate.
After pawing awkwardly through a whole lot of bandages and getting a whole lot of nothing, she eventually threw them at the wall in frustration.
A distinctive metallic sound chimed.
She blinked and looked down to see a tiny pair of scissors that must have gotten caught up with the bandages lying next to the shower cubicle.
Her heart thumping, Violet reached down and grabbed them.
Okay, so nail clippers weren’t far off. These were nail scissors with small curved blades, and they didn’t look sharp enough to do damage to anything. But then again, they were better than nothing.
She straightened, holding them in one hand, trying to figure out how she was going to cut herself while she was handcuffed. It would take some contortions but she thought she’d manage.
Yeah, you’ll probably manage to cut your tendons or something. Are you really sure this is a good idea?
No. It was a really stupid idea. But she couldn’t keep sitting around waiting to be put in a dark basement or to be handed over like a piece of meat to whoever this Jericho guy was.
“No, princess. No one is coming for you.”
The doubt threading through her abruptly pulled tight. That was another thing she didn’t want to wait for, the slow, terrible realization that he was right. That no one was going to come. That she was on her own.
Fuck that.
Right, so if she was going to do this, she needed to know when Elijah was going to return. Cutting herself too early could be a very bad thing indeed, yet cutting herself too late would mean nothing but pain, probably a dark basement, and definitely any further chance of escape gone.
She only had one shot at this so she had to get it right.
He’d been gone half an hour already so hopefully he wouldn’t be too much longer. Because if she had to wait another half an hour or so, she wasn’t going to be able to go through with it. Already the thought of cutting herself with a tiny pair of scissors was making her palms damp and nausea roil in her stomach.
Didn’t sometimes people cut their wrists in the bath because warm water numbed the pain? Perhaps she should do that?
Violet turned and went over to the big, white claw-foot marble tub that stood near one of the windows, turning on the faucet.
Then she stood there, breathing deeply and slowly, the way she did when she wanted to annoy her mother with another pretense at meditation. All part of the hippie-chick act that drove Upper East Side Hilary crazy. Funnily enough it worked. After about ten minutes she was feeling better. More determined.
She might be a babe in the woods, but dammit, this babe was not going to let herself be eaten.
When the bath was partly full, she turned off the water and stood there looking down at it for a moment. Then taking one more breath, she stepped into the tub fully clothed.
It was warm, so that helped her relax, but unfortunately it made her palms get even damper, which did not help her grip on the scissors. Dammit, when should she do this?
She sat for a second, just listening. But there was no sound from the outside.
Okay, the longer she sat here, the more likely she’d lose her nerve. Which meant if she didn’t do it now, she was screwed.
Violet took one last deep breath and gripped the scissors, angling her hands.
Then she brought the blades down hard across her wrist.
* * *
Elijah shook out the paper and stared at the newsprint in front of him. It hadn’t made the front page, but there it was on page two. Evelyn Fitzgerald, found dead in his home yesterday, the victim of a professional hit.
People on the sidewalk brushed past him but he ignored them as he stared at the paper. It pretty much said the same thing as all the other stuff he’d gleaned from his media search of the web that morning. Two dead bodyguards, signs of a fight in Fitzgerald’s private office, plus other evidence apparently pointed to a paid hit carried out by a business competitor.
Fucking Zac Rutherford must have cleaned everything up, including planting evidence.
Which all in all was extremely good since it meant the heat was off him. All he had to worry about was Violet, and with any luck it would be days before they realized she was missing.
How goddamn weird to think he had Rutherford to thank for that.
Satisfied, Elijah bunched up the paper and dumped it in the nearest trash can. As he did so, the burner phone in his pocket vibrated. He pulled it out, glancing down at the screen.
His sense of satisfaction deepened.
It was a text from an unknown number and all it said was I need proof.
Excellent. Jericho was interested. Not that Elijah had any doubt. From what Fitzgerald had told him, the man had been unshakable in his desire for Violet, which in turn had made Fitzgerald cocky about the concessions he’d planned to get from the guy.
Elijah didn’t want concessions. All he wanted was Jericho personally coming to get Violet, at which point he’d figure out the best way to take the prick out. And he would take him out, that was absolutely certain.
But first, he had to get that proof.
I’ll send a photo, he texted back.
There was a slight pause. You have two hours.
So Fitzgerald hadn’t been wrong. The guy really was desperate.
Not bothering with a response, Elijah put his phone away and headed back toward the apartment. He’d take a couple of pics of Violet then send them on, no drama.
Ten minutes later, he unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside. Violet wasn’t in the living area or, after a quick check, in the kitchen.
Jesus, if she’d gone into his damn bedroom again after he’d told her not to …
He stepped into the hallway and glanced down toward his bedroom. Then he heard a slight sound coming from the bathroom. Frowning, he pushed open the door and went in.
Violet was sitting in the bathtub fully clothed. A bathtub full of pink water. Her handcuffed wrists were resting on her knees and she was hunched over, a thin stream of blood oozing from a nasty, ragged-looking cut across her left wrist. A pair of tiny nail scissors were lying on the floor.
Holy fuck. What the hell had she done? No, scratch that. It was completely obvious what she’d done. She’d tried to slit her wrists.