Around the corner, up the stairs. Listen. Do you hear it? The subtle scratch, the soft scrape against cement.
He is writing, etching characters into the wall. A confession. A terrible truth. Or a lie.
Or maybe it’s code. A barely perceptible rhythm scratching out a message. Tap tap tap. Meet me in the back room. With the red wall. Come alone.
Maybe he is just trying to escape and he doesn’t even know you’re there. An unintentional voyeur. But there it is, the distinct sound. Knocking against the lock, prying metal away from stone. It’s really only a matter of time before he cracks it. Snaps it free. Gets away.
barbara fletcher 