“Keys," she said to the room. “Pins. Cash."
The cuff pressed her wrist. She eyed the cuff and its keyhole.
Her desk sat just out of reach.
“Move the bed," she whispered.
She braced her free hand against the post and dragged the frame an inch, another, wood groaning across old floorboards. “Again." A grunt. Another inch.
She stretched, yanked, and the drawer spilled pens and junk.
“Not you," she muttered, shakily smiling at the old heart. She pried the false back and found a small tin: bills, a SIM, a bobby pin.
She flattened the pin and slid it into the keyway.
The pin met spring. She tilted up, up, tiny clicks answering. “Come on," she breathed. “Open."
A door thumped below; voices rose and fell.
“Open," she told the cuff. “Open." She twisted. The spring sighed. The cuff popped.
