Page 129 of House of Cards

The second drawer is filled with fancy paper and envelopes. A few slim boxes neatly arranged besides the envelopes might be the right size and shape to hold a slim knife?—

Pens.

Pretty, but fucking useless, pens.

Thunk!

The bottom drawer rattles when I haul it open.

“Jesus. Okay.” My knees hit the carpet, my eyes going wider and wider as I hunt through the drawer that just debunked my theory that Smith doesn’t live here.

Everyone, even neat and organized freaks like Smith, has a drawer like this. It’s like he just dumps everything out of his pockets into this drawer whenever his suit jackets rattle too much when he walks.

I pack things on the carpet beside me, because there’s so much shit in here it’s hard to make sense of it.

Business cards. Cheap, branded pens. Restaurant mints. Matchbooks.

Casino chips.

So. Many. Chips.

My fingers tremble as I stack the chips in my palm. They’re not all from the Devil’s Luck, but it’s obvious they’re all big denomination chips.

Conveniently, there’s a small velvet bag with a bottle of cologne inside that I guess Smith got as a gift. I toss out the cologne and start filling the bag with enough chips to buy a small island. Hesitating, I shove a few of the black ones from the Devil’s Luck in my pocket. Those alone are five hundred kay, if my calculations are correct.

Judging from the chips still left in the drawer, I bet he won’t even miss it.

And so what if he does? I’ll be long gone by then.

If he doesn’t catch me.

I return everything except the tight velvet bag stuffed with coins to his bottom drawer, then try to make it as messy as it was before.

Sitting back on my heels, I weigh the bag in my hand. I turn to look at the door. I’m pretty sure there’s enough in here to cover Ricky’s debt. Maybe even enough for a deposit on a new diner.

But if I can’t open that fucking door, I’m not going anywhere.

My eyes land on the phone.

Unless someone opens it for me.

I freeze.

Room service.

That’s it. That’s how I get out of here.

My last attempt didn’t go as planned, but that’s becauseSmitharrived with the food tray, not some senseless bell boy, or whoever brings the stuff up from the kitchen.

Panic twists into something sharper, more focused. My hands still shake, but my thoughts are clearer now, my body buzzing with adrenaline.

I walk to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I look at myself in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

She looks unhinged. Wild hair, deathly pale skin, wide deranged eyes.

…No one’s gonna recognize you when I’m done…

A violent shudder runs through me. If I don’t get out of here before he comes back, that woman in the mirror won’t just look unhinged—she’ll be broken beyond repair.