One January Morning, Part 15
He pulled a knife from his boot, concealed, obviously, because its serrated ten-inch blade was no standard issue thing. As he drew nearer, Morgan did struggle, but the straightjacket held her close and tight. ‘Please,’ she wanted to say, though the words would not come. He held the knife to her neck and pulled at the collar of her jacket, as if to make his cut clean and unimpeded. But then he did something strange: he pushed his blade not into Morgan’s flesh, but into her jacket instead. He was freeing her.
“Loudest psychics I’ve ever met,” he said, as she stood and eyed him warily. He handed her the knife and rubbed at his temples. “You’re lucky I owe Roberts, or I might’ve just given in to their demands to end the headache.”
To be continued…