Free Girl in the Shadows by Gwenda Bond Page A

faking resistance a fraction earlier than it would’ve naturally occurred.
    Once they were finished, I released my breath.
    “You’re both satisfied there’s no way for me to get out of this without practicing the art of escape?” I asked.
    The woman and the guy both nodded, and so did most of the crowd. I had them invested.
    One of the things that makes a straitjacket escape in plain view so effective is the crowd’s certainty it’s not a trick. And it’s not, not really. It’s a true escape.
    The people in the audience invest because they can’t imagine any possible way they’d get out of the restraints the escape artist is in. They expect the person to get free but have no idea how it will be accomplished. That’s what makes it magic, and not a simple physical feat.
    “Does someone mind starting a stopwatch on their phone?” I asked.
    The willowy lady held hers up. “Ready?” she asked.
    “Go,” I told her.
    I began to work. Sweat streaked down my face. The straitjacket was like a pressure cooker in the humidity.
    This wasn’t an escape for the weak.
    The crowd around me had hushed entirely, and I strained to keep my focus. Any escape could be flubbed if you allowed yourself to be distracted. Any escape involving real restraints—like the ones I was currently in, fraction of wiggle room or not—could cause serious injury without the right level of care.
    A bright flash in the crowd caught my eye, and I realized the news crew had migrated down here to film me.
    I swallowed back an admonition for them to stop. The odds Dad would see some local affiliate’s coverage were slim. And I could take pleasure in bumping any footage of Dez. Assuming I managed to.
    Assuming I nailed this escape.
    I wiggled my upper arm, constrained to the front of my body, using that slight amount of play I’d arranged to have. I pressed my elbow up with sheer will, and a little more, and a little more, grinding it inch by inch toward my head, the second arm following because it had no choice, with the hand of the arm I was moving beneath it.
    There were uncomfortable groans and noises of worry as I began to twist and writhe and work to get free.
    I pushed up and slipped my head under my arms, bringing them both above my head and then around to my front. A familiar blaze of pain flared. Contrary to popular belief, dislocating a shoulder isn’t necessary for this escape, but that doesn’t mean it feels like a nice day in the sunshine.
    The crowd clapped.
    Scanning them, I let the discomfort pass. The hardest part was over. Now it was down to undoing the buckles and straps. Still complicated, but the home stretch.
    Until I glanced into the crowd and recognized a few of the faces looking on. Thurston and Raleigh, side by side. Thurston was already in his ringmaster tux and tails while Raleigh was in civilian clothes, done performing. They observed with interest.
    Then there was Dez, just to the right behind Thurston. Dez looked like he might rush forward.
    Like he cared if I was in trouble.
    I closed my eyes and ignored his presence.
    Or tried to.
    That heat flared within me. Not the bright hot pain I was used to at certain moments during an escape like this. It was my magic.
    No, no, no. Don’t ruin this for me. Thurston’s watching. Everyone is watching.
    I would not be humiliated in front of Dez—not again—and not after he’d made that stupid heart around someone else while I looked on. I’d have to get out of this quicker.
    I wriggled as hard as I could, forcing one hand down to undo the bottom strap that looped around my legs. When my fingers slid flat, open-palmed, over my pants pocket, I detected the shape of the coin within it. Dez’s penny, not one of my prop coins.
    Seconds from panic, my hands on fire, I sucked in another breath and fumbled the bottom buckle free.
    “Is he okay?”
    “Call a doctor!”
    There were gasps in the crowd, and the heat coursed through me so much I was almost afraid to look. But they