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Instead of forcing his way with Hilary right away, Eric went to the kitchen—two minutes that Hilary and I worked more on the ropes—and brought back a bottle of wine and three glasses.
He pushed the tray away and sat on the other side of the coffee table, diagonal between Hilary and me.
She was still trembling, and I didn’t blame her. I was trembling too; I just was more focused on cutting my ropes, kicking him in the gut, and running away.
With his perpetual charming smile, Eric filled the glasses with red wine and offered them to us.
“Ah, I guess I’ll need to cut one of your arms free,” he said. He set my glass down and pulled a penknife from his pocket. My eyes widened, and I prayed he chose to cut the ropes Hilary hadn’t touched.
She stared at me, her eyes as wide as mine.
I h
