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I flicked on the overhead light in the kitchen and went to the fridge. Ida had thrown out the Chinese food, no doubt because if it had stayed in there any longer, it would have grown feet and walked away on its own. But in its place were two plastic containers. I opened the first and sent Ida a prayer of thanks for the huge helping of lasagna, one of my all-time favorite meals. Curiosity had me reaching for the second container. It was taller than the first, but not as wide. I stilled when I saw the sight of a single cupcake sitting inside. There was even a candle stuck in it.
As grateful as I was for the gesture, it made me feel even shittier.
Thirty years old, and the only ones who’d taken the time to even remember my birthday were my twin brother and my too-kind housekeeper.
And I had no one but myself to blame.
I stuck the container of lasagna back into the fridge and then took the cupcake over to the table and sat down. I didn’t have any matches or lighters in the house, so I set the candle aside. It would have been too depressing to light the damn thing anyway. I reached for my phone and let my thumb hover over the play button on Brody’s message.
“Don’t,” I whispered to myself.
But I did it anyway. I played the message again.
The second I heard that crack in Brody’s voice, I shoved the cupcake away and reached for the whiskey. I downed the rest and then heaved the glass at the wall, relishing in the sound of it breaking. No, I didn’t feel any better, but at least I got to show the rage I couldn’t show in the real world.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there before I lifted my eyes and stared out the picture window, which faced the front yard. If the alcohol had had more time to work, my reflexes wouldn’t have been fast enough. I barely understood what I was seeing in the reflection of the window, but there was no mistaking the glint of a knife just above my left shoulder, along with a figure dressed in black standing right behind me. I instinctively threw myself to the right and hit the floor hard as my attacker plunged the knife down. It hit the table, sinking deep into the wood. As the man, and I had no doubt it was a man based on the heavy build, tried to yank the knife out, I kicked out at him, catching him behind the knee. An ordinary man would have hit the ground where I could have continued the attack. But this guy had either seen my blow coming, or he’d expected it, because he twisted at the last minute and my foot glanced off the fleshy part of his leg right below the knee joint…not enough to disable him.
He grabbed the knife as he threw himself down on top of me and I barely managed to catch his wrist as he plunged his arm in a downward arc. At 6’3, I wasn’t a small guy and I worked out enough to keep fit, but I wasn’t at my fighting weight. The stress of the campaign trail, among other things, had caused me to lose a good forty pounds, and this guy had that much on me at least, and all in muscle.
I tried swinging my legs out to knock him loose, but he’d pinned me in a way that I couldn’t move. My eyes fell on the remnants of the glass I’d thrown against the wall. The top part had broken into several small pieces, but the bottom piece hadn’t completely shattered. It had broken enough so that it was jagged along the top and bottom edges, and it was only about a foot away. It might be my only hope, but if I had to release him with one hand long enough to reach for it, I’d be giving him an advantage and he could easily plunge the knife into my throat long before I managed to grab the piece of glass.
But I didn’t have a choice because even now, my arms were burning under the strain of holding him back. The man suddenly used his right hand to punch me in the side. I gasped as he knocked the wind from me, but instinct had me holding onto his arm. When he went to hit me again, I used his momentary distraction to release his arm with one hand and snag the piece of glass. I ignored the pain in my hand as the glass sliced my palm open and punctured the skin on a couple of my fingers. I used all my strength to slash at the man’s face. He was wearing a ski mask, but the glass easily sliced through it and ripped into his flesh. Shouting, he fell back, grabbing his cheek. I used both hands to knock him backwards. I managed to scramble to my feet, but I’d just barely managed to stand when he was on me again and shoved me back against the wall. The knife was gone, but it didn’t slow him down because he slammed his fist into my jaw and then smacked my head against the wall. I managed to stay upright, but I was dazed, so I couldn’t move as he stepped back and pulled out a gun.
