Page 40 of Too Old for This

She walks out of the room. I fight against the panic. A second ago, it felt like I had a real chance. Now, I’m not sure. Maybe I don’t have a whole lot of time left on this planet, but the idea of it ending like this—at the hands of Norma —is enough to make an old woman panic.

She rattles around in the kitchen. I twist the upper half of my body, a futile attempt to find a weak spot in this chair. No such luck. Or, more likely, not enough strength in my body.

I test to see if I can stand up with the chair still attached.

The pain .

It tears through my back, forcing me right back down. I take a few deep breaths and try again. The second time, I’m prepared. The pain is still there, but it isn’t as shocking.

I stand up but can’t walk or move with my ankles bound together.

Maybe I can hop a little. Or maybe I’ll finally break my hip.

I sit down again and look around. Nothing helpful on the coffee table.

Not unless I break one of those porcelain figurines and try to cut the rope. But Norma might hear that.

Next to the recliner, there’s a side table with a lamp, the TV remote, a box of Kleenex, a half-empty box of cigarettes…and the lighter. It would burn through the rope, but it might burn me up as well.

I’m sure Norma has a few sharp things in her bag. Nail file, keys, maybe even a little pair of scissors. But it’s on the floor. I’d have to bend over with this chair on my back and pick it up. Risky. I could end up falling over.

My options are the bag or the lighter. Both are terrible.

And now she’s back.

“Your liquor selection sucks.”

Norma falls into my recliner. She has a wineglass filled with gin, and it sloshes over the side. Her cigarette is burned down to the filter. She throws it in the trinket bowl and lights another.

“Now, where were we? Oh, that’s right. You were going to tell me what you did with Plum.” She focuses on me, her eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong with you?”

I shake my head. My breathing is slow and labored. “I don’t know.”

“Speak up.”

“Too tight.” I nod toward the ropes.

Panic flashes in her eyes. She leans forward and touches the rope across my middle, pulls on it a little. “It’s not that tight. You can breathe just fine.”

No answer from me.

“I’m not loosening those ropes until you talk,” she says.

I nod toward the file. It’s on the chair, under Norma’s thigh. “That.”

“What about it?”

“It’s not the only thing I have,” I say.

“Not the only thing of Plum’s?”

“I have more.”

She jerks upright. Cigarette ash falls on the floor. “Where?”

“Loosen the rope.”

“How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“You don’t.” I pause to take another deep breath, grimacing like it’s painful. “But if I die, you’ll never know.”

It only takes her a second to decide. She keeps the cigarette stuck between her lips and moves around to the back of the chair. After bumping her leg on the coffee table—“Dammit!”—she bends down and starts untying the rope.

I can’t overpower her. And even if I could get free of the chair, my ankles would still be tied together. The best I can do is pull my arms forward as much as possible, making the rope seem tighter than it really is. Tonight, Norma’s drinking is my friend.

She reties the knot and walks back around to face me. “Better?”

“Better.” I keep my arms stiff so it looks like I still can’t move them. “Thank you.”

“Where are Plum’s things?”

“Upstairs. There’s a guest room at the end of the hall, on the left. Everything is in the closet.”

She rushes off, nearly stumbling on the edge of the rug in the entryway. As soon as she’s out of sight, I wiggle one arm and lift it up, right out of the ropes. Same with the other arm. But when I reach back toward the knot, I can’t get to it.

I stretch, but it’s still too far. The pain in my shoulder makes me stop.

Above me, Norma walks down the hall and into the guest room. The closet doors bang open.

I’m able to bend down and untie my ankles. My hands feel clumsy and slow, like they aren’t reacting as quickly as they should. Still sluggish from the sleeping pill. Finally, I get the rope undone, and I’m able to grab Norma’s purse.

“Where?” she yells.

“See that old vacuum cleaner? On the other side, in the boxes.”

I pull out her makeup bag. Eyeliner, mascara, blush brush, and concealer—not a good one, given the results. I find a pair of nail clippers.

They’ll have to do. My final option is the lighter.

“Where?” she screams. Louder. Angrier.

My fingers tremble as I try to clip my way through the rope. The pain in my shoulder hasn’t gone away, and all this exertion can’t be good for my heart.

Footsteps above me. Norma walks back down the hall to the stairs.

Clip, clip, clip.

A centimeter or two at a time. If I were stronger, I’d be able to rip this rope apart.

“I don’t see anything!”

“Did you look inside the boxes?” I yell.

“Yes!”

She is on the stairs, her heavy footprints descending.

Clip, clip.

The front door is less than twenty feet away, but I can’t get to it without her seeing me. And she’s a lot stronger than I am.

Clip.

Done.

I pull the rope off and get up from the chair. Every muscle is stiff, and both of my hips hate me. I clamp my teeth down on my tongue to keep from screaming.

Norma’s foot slams down into the foyer. “What the hell kind of game are you playing?”

The only available direction is backward.

My family room has three doors. The first is the open doorway to the foyer, and the second leads to a half bath.

The last one is in the far corner and leads to the study, though I haven’t used that room in years.

I rush into it, close the door behind me, and lock it.

On the other side, I hear Norma’s gasp. She has discovered I’m no longer tied up. Her gasp is followed by a deep, primal scream.

“Lottie!”

How can I not smile at that?

The study has another door. It leads to the laundry room, then a hallway behind the main staircase, and, finally, into the kitchen.

And the back door of the house.

The floor plan goes in a circle. Maybe because the original family had servants, and this made it easier. Or maybe because people snuck around a lot back then.

If Norma stays in the family room, that’s my ticket out of this hellish night. But if she steps back into the foyer, she’ll have a clear view down the hall, into the kitchen.

I hear a crash.

She has turned over a table or a chair. Something breaks on the floor. Her wineglass, the trinket bowl—maybe both.

Deep breath.

She doesn’t know her way around my house, and that’s my advantage. She can’t find me if she can’t figure it out.

I yell, “Norma!”

Silence. Then footsteps.

She runs over to the study door and tries the handle. “Goddammit, open this door!”

More footsteps.

I hear the hard clink of metal. It comes from the fireplace.

“Did you ever ask Plum why all her docuseries were about people wrongfully accused of crimes?” I ask.

Silence.

“Did you ever wonder why she was so obsessed with their stories?”

“Open this door!” she screams.

“It was because you abandoned her when she was a baby.”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything about—”

“Plum hated you for that,” I say. “She was trying to find an excuse for you. She didn’t want you to be as terrible as you are. Her whole life was about trying to excuse what you did. But you know what? She couldn’t. She still hated you.”

I don’t know if this is true or not. I’m just trying to get under Norma’s skin. Maybe Plum did feel that way about her mother. It would certainly make sense. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Only Norma’s reaction does.

Her scream is followed by a huge thump.

That bitch hit my door with the fireplace poker. It’s stuck in the solid wood. She pulls on it, trying to get it out.

I head for the other door, go through the laundry room and into the kitchen. My phone is on the counter, right where it always is.

Almost there.

Just a few more steps, and I’ll be out the door, free to call 911. The police will arrest this drunken, delusional woman who tied me up in my own home.

But I stop.

My cane is in the corner, next to the breakfast table. The one with the solid brass handle.

I pick it up. I also grab a kitchen knife.