Page 51 of The Island

Heather took a big drink of water.

“Tell me,” Owen said.

Owen was too smart for Heather to sugarcoat it or fob him off with an I don’t know…

“Owen, I want you to look at me,” Heather said. “Look at me, Owen. Please.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” he said from the depths of his hood.

“Owen, I—”

“They killed him because he killed that woman,” Owen said mechanically.

“No,” Hans said. “They killed him?”

“Owen, I’m really sorry. I tried to stop them. We had sort of worked everything out but then the woman’s husband showed up. I’m so sorry, honey. I really am sorry, I wish I could come over there right now and hug you, baby.”

Hans and Petra began talking heatedly in Dutch.

“Is he definitely dead?” Owen asked quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Heather said.

Owen looked at her furiously and then buried his head back in the hoodie again. His whole body began to shake.

“I’m so sorry, Owen.”

“Shut up, Heather!” Owen said. “Just shut up, OK? Shut your stupid mouth!”

Heather nodded. It was OK for him to let this out. Olivia too. They would be dealing with this for years. If they weren’t all murdered in the morning. Her pulse was racing. Where in the name of God was that penknife? Had she lost it? How could she have lost it? She had buried it here just as they were leaving. She needed to find it—

Was it by the iron hoop or—

Over to the—

There it was. Thank you, God.

She grabbed the knife and despite having almost no leverage began sawing at the bonds on her wrist. The rope was thick but the knife was incredibly sharp, and once she had a good angle, it began slicing through the hemp.

Olivia was looking at her. She had stopped crying now. Owen was making little beeping noises from inside his hood. The Dutch couple continued their heated talk.

She sawed. Felt the friction. Sawed more. She ignored the flies, the mosquitoes, the oven heat, the fact that Tom, her rock, her savior, was dead.

She looked outside through a gap in the plank walls. It was quieter. The crowd seemed to be dispersing now and returning to the big main farmhouse or the smaller satellite houses.

Heather sawed at the rope as the sweat poured down her forehead. Her fingers were burning from the friction, and little whiffs of smoke were coming from the fibers. She took a break and put down the knife and unscrewed the cap on the water bottle—not an easy thing to do with tied hands. The water was lukewarm but good. Only half a bottle left. Save the rest.

Another check outside. No obvious movement. Couple of voices from the main yard. Lights still on at the house. Smart thing to do might be to wait until the wee hours. When everyone was quiet, they could make a clean break without pursuit. Or maybe it would be better just to friggin’ go as soon as they could in case someone decided to separate them or put a guard on the shed or Jacko or Danny came for Olivia…

Cross that bridge when they—

She picked up the knife. She held it between finger and thumb. She sawed, sweated, sawed.

Suddenly the blade went through one of the main strands.

She sawed harder, and another strand popped almost with a twang.

She cut the final strand and she was through!