Outside, the heavy rumble of diesel engines and the low honk of a foghorn told me we were near the docks.

The rain was still falling, drumming a relentless, metallic beat on the corrugated roof high above.

I twisted my wrists, but the metal of the handcuffs bit deep into my skin.

“Don’t bother,” a voice called out from the shadows near the far wall.

A man was sitting on an upturned wooden crate, smoking a cigarette.

The orange cherry of the light flared, illuminating a flat, scarred face I didn’t recognize.

He was one of Killian’s men.

“The boss is on his way,” the man said, blowing a cloud of gray smoke into the damp air.

“Killian?” I asked, my voice cracking.

The man didn’t answer.

He looked down at his phone, his face bathed in the blue glow of the screen.

I had to move.

I forced myself to breathe slowly, puffing out my chest and letting my shoulders drop.

As a plus-sized woman, I had spent my life learning how to construct garments that accommodated weight, tension, and movement.