Page 133 of Reckless

I don’t even look at it.

The file.

The wine.

None of it matters anymore.

I back away from the rear door, every instinct screaming at me to stay quiet, to keep whoever’s out there believing the apartment is empty.

The staircase rises just beyond the living room.

Bedroom.

If I can get upstairs…

If I can lock myself in…

If I can get into the closet and stay hidden…

Maybe they’ll leave.

Maybe they’ll think nobody is home. The thought is enough to get my legs moving.

I take the stairs two at a time, one hand skimming the banister because I’m climbing too fast for my body to keep up, my pulse hammering so violently that every step seems to shake through my bones. By the time I reach the middle of the staircase, I’ve almost convinced myself I’ve got a plan.

Then another thought punches straight through it. What happens if they find me? The question stops me so abruptly I almost lose my footing.

My fingers slam against the wall to steady myself while panic tears through every half-formed idea in my head.

I’m about to lock myself upstairs, alone.

With nothing but my phone.

If that door gives way…

If whoever is out there decides they aren’t leaving…

What exactly am I planning to defend myself with?

“Oh God!” The words barely make it past my lips. I spin around so fast my shoulder clips the wall, pain blooming through it as I bolt back down the stairs.

The kitchen.

How the hell didn’t I think of the kitchen?

Every second feels stolen now, and every footstep sounds too loud.

I keep expecting to hear the rear door burst open behind me, expecting heavy footsteps to follow me across the floor, expecting hands to grab me before I make it halfway across the room.

Nothing.

Only the deafening roar of my own pulse.

The knife block sits beside the sink exactly where it always has.

I’ve reached into it hundreds of times without thinking. Tonight my hand closes around the first handle I touch, and I yank it free so quickly the blade whispers against the timber.

I stare at it.