Six Months Buried

​"How was work?" she asked, stirring the pasta. ​"Slow," I replied, grabbing a roll

of duct tape from the drawer. ​She paused, confused. "What’s that for?"

​"A project," I said. "I’ll be upstairs." ​In our bedroom, I tested the lock.

Rattle. It held. I pushed against the bed frame, checking its weight.

​"Dinner's ready!" she called. ​We ate in silence. Her eyes tracked mine,

searching. ​"What's the project?" she asked. ​"Nothing you’d enjoy," I replied.

"Don't worry about it." ​At midnight, I went back up. She was asleep.

I had the tape and a kitchen knife. I bound her wrists to the headboard and locked the door.