Callighan waited with his back against the basement wall, his head lowered and his hands resting loosely beside his thighs. From the stairs, he would look much as he had every other evening: beaten, exhausted, and incapable of doing anything about it.
He had to keep looking that way.
Pamela's hairpin was hidden against his palm. He had already used it on his own restraints, working slowly whenever he was certain no one was watching, then arranging the loosened chains so they appeared untouched. Now there was nothing left to do except wait for someone to come close enough.
The man bringing their evening ration was late.
Callighan glanced toward the door before forcing his attention elsewhere. Watching the stairs too closely would give him away if someone opened it unexpectedly, and he had not endured all these hours of waiting to ruin his chance through impatience.
Across the basement, Ryan remained slumped in the chair.
