Page 7 of The Fix

Every muscle in Cami’s body was tensed with fear. Her heart pounded as she listened to the garage door lifting and her father’s distant whistling as he strolled toward the house, where he’d enter into the mudroom the same way she had.

She wanted to screech in terror, to warn him, but she was helpless to do anything but wait and pray that he’d be able to fight the two men off that she knew lay in wait just beyond the door.

But then she had an idea. It was Elle’s bedroom that was over the mudroom, not hers, but she was just down the hall and maybe .

.. She lifted her butt off the mattress and then slammed it down again, repeating the movement so that the bed came off the ground and then pounded back to the floor.

Cami did it again, and then again, tears blurring her vision and sweat breaking out everywhere on her body.

She heard her dad’s whistle falter as his steps slowed, and she sucked back a sob that had no way to escape, scared that she was at risk of choking herself.

But her dad had heard the commotion and, at the very least, was maybe a little more on guard now.

Maybe it would be the thing that would mean the difference between those men taking him purely by surprise and him suspecting something was off.

Suddenly, Trig raced into the room, obviously having climbed the stairs so quickly and quietly that she hadn’t heard him coming.

He flew at her, slamming his body over hers so that her movements stopped, the bed remaining solidly on the floor.

Oh God, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

His chest was over her face, his arms clamped around her body, and she was helpless to move, struggling merely to take in air through her nostrils.

All she could do was listen as her dad’s footsteps resumed before the downstairs door opened.

Then her body jolted when she heard him yell in surprise.

There was a loud scuffle, and despite her lack of oxygen, Cami screamed behind her gag, the sound emerging as a soft buzz, muffled further by Trig’s shirt.

There was one final loud slam, and then all noise ceased from below.

In her head, Cami was still screaming, though she’d lost the capacity to force air from her lungs, the only oxygen being pulled into her body a tiny trickle through her nose.

Inky dots clouded her vision, expanding and leaking into one another.

But then suddenly Trig’s body was off hers, and she leaned her head back, pulling in as much air as she could, the ink clearing as light seemed to explode all around her.

Oh please. Please let the other monster be lying dead on the kitchen floor.

But if he was, wouldn’t her dad have called their names by now?

Trig moved slowly and quietly across her room to the door, leaning around it to peer into the hallway and over the stairs, obviously not wanting to call AJ’s name and alert her dad to his presence if AJ was in fact unconscious.

“Trig?” AJ’s voice rose from downstairs, and that scream rose in Cami’s mind again.

Hot tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes and ran into her ears as Trig let out a sharp exhale and exited her room.

Oh Dad. Oh Dad. Was he the one lying dead on the kitchen floor?

Or had they just knocked him out like they’d done to her and probably Elle and their mother too?

Her sweet sister and mom, who she knew were experiencing the same devastation as they lay tied up in their rooms, wailing silently behind their taped lips.

Cami heard Trig and AJ talking downstairs but couldn’t make out the words. She heard the sound of what she imagined was a body being dragged and then their voices from farther away, coming from the study down the hall, if she was tracking them correctly.

A few minutes later Trig came back in the room.

She braced as he moved swiftly toward her, lifting his hand and slapping her across the face once and then again.

Pain exploded behind her eye, and she whimpered, pressing herself into her pillow in a useless attempt to avoid another blow.

He leaned close and whispered in her ear, his breath sour and tinged with the smell of cigarette smoke even through the thin paper of his mask, “If you do something like that again, I will put a bullet in your pretty head, is that clear?”

Cami nodded, a jerky movement that made her eye throb where she’d been hit. Her stomach roiled, and for a moment she feared she’d be sick and that the tape would ensure she’d aspirate on her own vomit. Breathe. Breathe.

“Good. Daddy is taken care of. He won’t bother us, but he will listen to what we do to his women.

That’s the whole point after all.” He laughed as he pulled a phone from his back pocket and opened it before turning it toward her.

No. Oh no. Needles poked the underside of her skin.

It was her father, tied to the chair in his study, tape over his mouth, blood running down his cheek from a cut over his eye, his head lolling on his shoulder.

Trig put his phone away and stood back, and though she saw the pull of his mask as he smiled, his eyes remained mean. “First, though, I’m hungry and a man has to eat.” Then he turned and walked out of her room.

She lay there for several minutes, the sounds of the men rooting through their cabinets drifting to where she was.

She heard the clink of beers and the sound of the microwave door opening and closing.

She tried to listen for her mother or her sister but didn’t hear a sound from either of their rooms. She pictured them there, lying bound to their beds like she was, terrified and listening to the noises from below.

Waiting to find out what horror would happen next.

“You check out the one in the leggings?” she heard one of them ask the other from below. “She’s hot as fuck.” Cami felt vomit in the back of her throat. He was referring to Elle. Fourteen-year-old Elle.

“Sure, if you like jailbait,” the other replied casually.

“Hell yeah, I do. Haven’t been with a virgin in a while. There’s nothin’ like ridin’ a virgin. You ever popped a cherry, Trig?” The vomit rose higher, and Cami swallowed it down.

There was a pause as though Trig was chewing. “Yeah, popped a few cherries. But I prefer the feel of a broken-in pussy.”

“Rich bitches ain’t got no broken-in pussies. They get surgery for that shit.”

The man named Trig let out a soft guffaw. “Man, you’re stupid as hell.”

Cami took in slow, deep breaths, the conversation solidifying her deepest fear. These men weren’t only here to rob them of their cash and jewels. They meant to take much more than that.

Dad is unconscious. He can’t help you. And no one else is coming home.

You’re going to have to try to help yourself.

And then Mom and Elle. She had only two options—comply and hope they’d take what they wanted afterward and leave, or try to find a way to get free and fight.

The first option would mean enduring even more unspeakable traumas than they already had, but she didn’t currently see any way to make the second option happen.

Movement in the mirror over her dresser across the room caught her attention.

She could see Mrs. Willoughby in her yard, trimming her roses.

She was behind a fence that separated their properties and was blocked by the branches of a tree when she moved to certain spots. But she was there , so close.

And yet so very far away.

Her heart jumped and then began pounding, even though she knew Mrs. Willoughby couldn’t see her where she lay.

And she wouldn’t catch a glance of Trig when he entered the room, either, as long as he went directly to Cami, as he’d done so far.

But Cami could see Mrs. Willoughby, and if she had a way to signal her . ..

Cami twisted her head to look at her bedside table next to her, just beside the window.

She’d pushed it away from her bed so she could access the power cord to charge her phone, and she regretted that now.

Deeply. Only a lamp and an alarm clock and a few books were on top, but there was something in the drawer she might be able to use.

The drawer, however, might as well have been located in another town for all the good it did her.

Her eyes darted to the mirror across from her again. Mrs. Willoughby was out tending to her garden, but she probably wouldn’t be for long. Think, think.

Cami glanced at her unbound feet, picturing an unlikely possibility. But as improbable as it might be, she couldn’t conceive of another way. And her time was limited. She had a feeling the monsters would both be back upstairs the moment they were done raiding their kitchen.

Cami toed off her tennis shoes, pausing when one dropped to the floor with a quiet thunk. But down below, a man laughed—AJ, she thought—and Trig made a comment in return. Cami focused back on the task of using each alternating foot to remove her socks as well.

She glanced back to the bedside table again, and then she pulled herself as far up to the headboard as she could and twisted her body as she attempted to reach the drawer with her toe.

The way her arms had been tied, however, limited her mobility in that direction, and so while she came close, she’d have to wrench her arm from its socket if she stood a chance of her toe connecting with the drawer handle.

She lay back straight and moved as far down the bed as she could, until her arms were straight over her head. This could work, but it was going to put her flexibility to the test. Thank God for cheerleading. Without it, she’d never even attempt this.

Cami gathered her breath and then she raised her hips and used the bed beneath her to thrust backward and come at the drawer from upside down.

She was closer but not quite there. Still, she refused to give up, even though the awkward position cut off her limited air and made her sweat.

She was also at risk of all her weight going over the bed, and if that happened, it might actually wrench her shoulder from its socket.

Her muscles screamed. She feared she’d cause her own blackout with the way she was bending her neck.

But she gritted her teeth and pressed harder, her vision blurring as her toe touched the handle.

Her muscles were quaking now, but she refused to quit.

She was almost there. She hooked her big toe through the handle, and then she pulled the drawer open, little by little, sweat dripping down the side of her cheek the way the tears had done earlier.

Okay, okay. That’s good. That’s enough. Her abdominal muscles shook, and her spine and back muscles stretched to their limit as she carefully extricated her toe from the handle, knowing that if she did it too quickly, she risked bringing the nightstand with her, the sound of which would surely have the two devils in her room within seconds.

With her toe free, she slowly rolled forward, lowering her body as gently as possible.

She gave herself until the count of ten to rest and get her bearings, after the dizziness that the lack of oxygen and the holding of the upside-down pose had caused.

Then, once again, she moved her legs to the side, using her left leg to reach inside the drawer that, now it was open, was close enough to access.

The smell of whatever they’d microwaved drifted up the stairs and made her stomach rumble with hunger. She’d felt so queasy all day, she’d barely eaten a bite of anything.

But she pushed aside all thoughts of the ongoing queasiness of late and her stop at the drugstore. There was no room for that, not now.

Keep eating, you greedy bastards.

She felt the smooth, cool top of the compact mirror and curled her toes around the edge, lifting slowly.

But her feet were so clammy that it slipped out of her grasp, falling back into the drawer with a clink.

Cami froze, but when there was no indication they’d heard the sound from below, she swung her legs back onto the bed and dried her foot on the bedding.

Out the window, Mrs. Willoughby was still there. Stay, stay, don’t move. Please. There’s only a little bit of sunlight left.

Cami swung her legs to the side again, twisting her waist as far as it would go and repeating the movement she’d just made to pick up the compact.

She gripped it with her toes again and then slowly she raised her foot from the drawer and brought her legs back around, releasing her toes from the small mirror once it was over the bed.

It dropped to the quilt, and Cami let out an exhale. It took her only a few seconds to roll back over and push the drawer shut so the two men wouldn’t know what she’d done.

Then she used her feet to open the clasp on the compact, her heart galloping through several failed attempts.

But thankfully, it was loose enough that it only took a minute or so, and then Cami wiped her soles on the bedding again and picked up the mirror with her feet, holding it securely between them and tilting it toward the window across the way, using the mirror on the opposite side of the room as a visual.

This might not even work. God, the angle might be all—

The mirror caught the light, flashing through the window and directly across to Mrs. Willoughby. The old woman squinted and raised her hand.

Yes, yes, yes! Cami dropped the compact, and it fell back to the bed.

No. Fuck!

She picked the mirror back up again, trying desperately to control her breathing and her heart rate, both her excitement and her fear ratcheting up.

It was working! Don’t let me fail. Please see this, and call the cops.

Please understand. She used the mirror to flash Mrs. Willoughby again and watched as she squinted, her expression registering annoyance.

Cami tipped the mirror one way and then the other, shaking, but keeping the glare in Mrs. Willoughby’s eyes. She cursed herself for not knowing Morse code. But even if she did, Mrs. Willoughby probably wouldn’t, so what would it matter? Just keep signaling. Make her wonder.

The old woman bent her neck and used her hand as a visor as she looked up toward Cami’s window to see what the nuisance was.

Cami tipped the mirror backward and then frontward, her legs beginning to shake again as she held them in position.

Despite not knowing Morse code, she tried to flash the light in a way that seemed coordinated, rather than random.

She desperately hoped Mrs. Willoughby would see that it was a flashing light, evenly spaced, controlled by a person. A person begging for help.

Please work. Please, please work.