The ache in the broken bone had faded a little, or maybe my body had become fed up with letting me know it was hurt. Either way, I did as she asked. Obeying for now—purely biding my time.

How should I do it?

Cutting shears to her jugular?

A fire poker to her heart?

My fingers around her throat, strangling, strangling?

I flinched as the sharp teeth of the Dremel chewed through the cast, removing the heat and itch. It didn’t take long for Bonnie to slice from wrist to elbow. Her hands shook, trying to pincer it open—her age not granting enough power to break the mould.

“Open it,” she commanded, growing weary.  A sheen of sweat covered her brow, a grey tinge painting her skin.

My heart skipped to see her struggling. Her heartbeats were numbered. My mind started a countdown.

One beat.

Two beats.

Three beats.

Four.

My hand was steady as I cracked open the cast, almost as if contemplating murder worked wonders for my peace of mind. I winced as the cast fell away, destroying whatever support I’d had.

Once the pieces hit the table, Bonnie immediately scooped them into the bucket. They sank into the water and vinegar mixture.

Air bubbles popped on the surface, faster and faster.

She caught me looking. “Allow me to teach you a few things before your final hour. The vinegar dissolves the plaster. Once it’s reduced to nothing but sludge, the water will be sifted, any wayward diamonds scooped from the bottom, and washed in preparation to go to Diamond Alley for processing.”

She snapped her fingers. “Give me the rest of the cast. I know the pouches are hidden in the padding.”

Fifteen beats.

Sixteen beats.

Seventeen beats.

Eighteen.

Pain amplified as I slipped out of the cushion and handed over the plastic tray. My arm held marks and indents from the padding, red from the cast’s itch. However, the swelling hadn’t gone down. An angry bruise already marred my skin, black and purple and blue.

Immediately, she scooped the diamonds out and placed them beside the bucket. “Once they go to Diamond Alley, then where do you think they go?”

Nursing my arm, I tested my fingers. They worked but with no power or grip. If I had any chance at killing her, I’d have to work through the agony and force my limb to obey. Otherwise, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Well, Ms. Weaver?” Bonnie slapped the table. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You mistook my disinterest for attention.” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care.”

“You should.” Prodding my vulnerable break, she hissed. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Flinching away, I fought the pain as I grabbed the edge of the table. A horribly frustrating and terribly timed vertigo wave attacked me. I hung my head, anchoring my feet to the floor, riding out the vicious swell.

She chuckled as the greyness subsided, leaving behind the serendipitous knowledge that Bonnie’s flower shears rested only a finger breadth away.

Scissors.

Blood.

Death.

She didn’t notice my sudden hope and fascination with the weapon within reach.

Wrapped up in her own importance like a fluffing peacock, she looked at the brother by the door.

She pointed at the bucket and pouches. “Take those downstairs and make sure each diamond is accounted for.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll know if any go missing and you’ll be subjected to a cavity search once the diamonds are bagged and labelled.”

The man came forward, cringing a little at the thankless task and the reward he had to look forward to once completed. “Yes, ma’am.”

I held my breath.

The brother grabbed the items and departed through the door.

She made him leave.

We’re alone.

Thirty.

Thirty-one beats.

Thirty-two.

Thirty-three heartbeats.

Stupid, stupid Hawk.

Slowly, I fisted the shears with my unbroken arm, wrapping tight fingers around the handles.

Bonnie didn’t notice, so consumed with her own self-importance as she stood and brushed plaster dust from her blood-red skirt.

Blood-red.

The same colour she wore at the dice game a few days ago.

My fury fired and I held up the twin blades. “You asked me before if my arm hurt. I’ll now ask you a similar question. Do you think this will kill you if I lodge it in your heartless chest?”

She scooted off her seat, shuffling backward. “Drop it, Ms. Weaver.”

I advanced, brandishing my weapon. “No.”

Her mouth opened to scream.

Fifty-two.

Fifty-three heartbeats.

I’d lost my opportunity last time.

I’d been too slow. Too weak.

I had no intention of screwing this one up.

I charged, stopping her before she could make a sound.

I slammed my palm over her mouth, tackling her. My break bellowed and my good fingers weakened around the pilfered scissors, but I didn’t let her go. She tripped, but I managed to right us. Bolts of agony and shards of pain drenched my nervous system from my uncasted arm.

“Ah, ah, ah. I think silence is better in this newly developed situation, don’t you?” My vocabulary mimicked hers, thriving off the power of manhandling the wicked Hawk witch.

Bonnie’s papery breath fluttered over my hand as her nostrils flared.

She struggled. But her brittle bones were no match for my rage. Her eyes tried to hurt me with unspoken curses, but I wouldn’t put up with it anymore.