The cartilage crunched, a strange kind of pressure-pain as I reached with my free hand to grab his wrist, hand curling, my fingers digging in as hard and deep as I could.
A growl escaped him as he released my hair to try to pry my hand away.
But there was no need.
The second I was released, I crawled forward a foot, two, then shot to my feet, rushing to put the shelf between us.
“Bitch,” he snarled.
He had no idea.
I couldn’t help but wonder, as he inched in one direction, making me scoot down the opposite direction, if this was the guy who’d killed Robin. Was this the last face she saw before he snuffed out her light, her life?
Had he hurt her first?
Tortured her for the information?
Was he a stranger?
Or was this some sort of personal betrayal?
Which would be worse?
The guy suddenly changed directions, shooting upward, forcing me back down the aisle, further away from the doorway to the front of the building, from my gun, from possible escape.
Adrenaline coursed through me, a fluttering in my pulse points, an electric sensation on my skin. My heart felt close to busting out of my ribcage. My stomach flipped over and over.
We shifted positions again, his labored breathing telling me how pissed he was getting with this cat-and-mouse game.
He faked me out, pretending to run again, only to thrust his hand through the shelf, grabbing the front of my shirt, and hauling me against the unit before I could even think to brace myself.
The edge of the metal shelf caught me on the lip, the pain both sharp and throbbing at the same time. I tasted the blood even as my lip went fat as it swelled up.
I yanked away, stumbling back into the next row of shelves. A small yelp escaped me as I lost my footing, all my weight coming down on the shelf.
I felt it wobble, but it stayed upright, thanks to a lower shelf lined with boxes full of old nudie magazines I knew were valuable but hadn’t found an appropriate way to sell them yet. Sure, some of the old ones kept the bush hidden behind a bedpost or pillow, but they were all tits-out. And by the eighties, it was all vag everywhere too.
It was one of my favorite collections in the shop.
Not because I had any affinity for porn magazines.
But because they’d been brought in by a bewildered daughter after her parent died. She’d found them lining the bottom of their dresser drawers.
Not her father.
Her mother.
I kind of hoped there was an afterlife. And that the girl’s mom was up there surrounded by all the muff society and their antiquated rules had denied her when she was alive.
Before I could debate not falling onto an unyielding cabinet, though, my attacker grabbed the edge of another, much lighter, one and shoved.
The shelf was too long, attached to the ones at its side with carefully placed zip ties. There was no outrunning it.
The whole thing came down as one big unit, shoving me back against the other shelves, this time taking them down with me.
I landed back on them, the one shelf cushioning my fall, the metal shelves ramming into the back of my head, my shoulders, and my back. The unit that came down on me, caught me across the nose, ribs, and knees.
I felt the pain everywhere at once.
