The Stolen Girl by Samantha Westlake Page A

whispered back.
    And with one last parting, happy little wave, the FBI agent exited, walking down the steps and across the senator’s front lawn towards where her car was parked, down the street. Sterling closed the door, in case any reporters were still around, but he watched the woman walk away. All of his old worries and fears were still in his mind, but their voices were a little quieter now, a little more muffled. There was a spark of hope inside his brain now, as well, dancing and in flux, but never going out.
    Sterling made sure his door was locked and bolted, and then made his way upstairs, towards his bed. Now, he could feel exhaustion setting into his bones. It had been a long day. He needed to be ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

 

     
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    I needed to escape. That much was certain.
    I had been sitting on Roads’ bed for the last half hour, my eyes closed as I struggled to meditate, to clear my mind. I had been trying this for years, on and off along with my dad, ever since I had seen a show about monks as a little girl and had excitedly told him about it. Neither of us had ever gotten very good at the “empty mind” part, but I still resorted to it in times of stress.
    But I had decided with all my will that I had to escape. I didn’t want to spend any more time trapped here, locked in this room while my guards below fucked and frolicked, intoxicated and not on their guard.
    My gaze rose up to glare at the locked door to the bedroom. That was definitely the only way in or out of this room; there were no other doors, and a quick glance out the window revealed that, even if I got it open, I would have to contend with a full 2.5-story drop onto hard, uncushioned ground below. And this side of the house was covered with sheer siding, offering no opportunity for hand holds. That wasn’t an option.
    I got up and rattled the door knob again, more to make sure that it was locked than out of any hope that it would suddenly spring open. There was a key hole on this side as well, and when I lowered my eye to gaze through it, I could see the light of the hallway.
    I cast my vision about the room once again. There were a few knick knacks scattered around on top of the dresser and the writing desk, but nothing that looked like it would be useful for breaking down the door. The hinges of the door were on the inside, but I didn’t have any tools that could dislodge the pins in them, and I had never tried to do anything like that before. I didn’t know the first step.
    My attention returned to the lock. Maybe I could find something to pick it? I remembered that, in the drawer in the bedside nightstand, there had been some bobby pins. I threw myself across the bed with a flop, yanked the drawer back open, and grabbed them.
    I bent a couple of the bobby pins out until they were relatively straight and then returned to the door. I had never picked a lock before, but they did it all the time in movies and on TV - how hard could it be? And I understood the basics, thanks to all those crime procedurals that my dad liked to leave on while cooking dinner. Pins inside the lock moved up and down, and the key turned because it lifted all the pins to the right height. So all I had to do was bump them up to the right height, and I should be able to twist the lock picks and unlock the door!
    Unfortunately, as I soon discovered, actually turning this information into a real-life unlocked door was a lot harder. I could feel the pins clicking up and down as I moved the bobby pin back and forth inside the keyhole, but they just seemed to come clicking right back down. There was nothing holding them up at the right height.
    I tried twisting one bobby pin in the lock, putting some tension on it in hopes that it would turn as soon as I had raised the pins inside to the right level. This time, when I jiggled the other straightened pin, I could hear clicking noises, and the pins seemed to set. A few more