The ropes around Frieda’s wrists cut into her skin with a coarse friction that left them raw and bleeding.
“Not so tight,” she murmured.
“Got to make it convincing.” Her partner winked at her.
She wanted to frown, but the thousands of eyes upon her demanded that she smile. She let him slip her bonds onto the meat hook that would hoist her high above the water tank.
As she rose into the air she felt the fibers of the rope weaken against the metal. The tension was all wrong. Her hands were bound too tight, the rope too weak.
He ignored her. She wrapped her fingers around the hook itself and felt where the ropes had been scored with a knife.
Frieda glimpsed metal in David’s back pocket. He wouldn’t. Not here. Not now.
The perfect cover for the perfect murder.
“How long can you hold your breath, Frieda?”