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“Don’t get involved.” Mary wasn’t too willing to help out.
Adria blinked and tried to stay conscious. There was something familiar about the attacker, familiar and horrible and…it teased the edge of her consciousness. What was it? Who was he?
“Hey, lady, I don’t know what happened here, but it looks bad,” the man who was tending to her said.
She lifted her hand to the back of her head and felt sticky blood matting her hair. Groaning, she pulled herself upright, her eyes squinting, trying to get used to the bright lights. As she did, her heart squeezed in fear. The room had been destroyed. Chairs turned over, the television set smashed, sheets torn and ripped from the bed, as if someone had been in a fury so wild—so blind, he’d needed to lash out at something, anything, to vent his rage. On the mirror over the bureau, scribbled in a grease pen’s bold black letters, was a simple and horrifying message: DEATH TO THE BITCH.
Worse yet, tossed onto the bare mattress was a pair of black panties, the pair she’d had stolen; it was shredded, as if sliced over and over again by a razor.
“Oh, God.” She felt suddenly sick again and the room seemed to spin around her. Her nose and mouth tasted foul, and she had to fight against the overwhelming sensation that evil still lurked beneath the bed or behind the curtains.
“What’s going on here?” the man asked. “No—wait. You just lie still. Don’t talk. Save it for the police.”
Footsteps. Shouts. People closing in, some curious, some concerned. She hurt so badly she didn’t care.
“Sumbitch, would you look at that!”
“Did someone call the frickin’ ambulance?”
“Hell, yes, but Jesus H. Christ, it looks like a bear came in here and went on a rampage.”
“Yeah, sure, and now bears cut up underpants.”
“Hang on, miss. Marge—the manager—?”
Headlights flashed against the window and tires crushed the gravel in the lot.
“Adria!” She heard his voice, roaring through the crowd, a lifeline to reach out and cling to.
Zachary! Tears filled her eyes as she tried to scramble to her feet.
“You lie still!” she was ordered.
Zachary broke through the crowd beginning to collect at the door and gathered her into his arms.
“Adria, oh, God, Adria,” he said, holding her as if he could protect her, as if the strength of his body could stave off the pain, the fear. Clinging to him, she fought the horrid sobs that suddenly clogged her throat as relief flooded through her. She was with Zachary and safe. So safe.
“Hey, you, I wouldn’t touch her!” a man advised. “Leave her for the paramedics, they’re on their way. She’s bleedin’, man, no tellin’—hey, are you her old man?”
“What the fuck happened here?” the manager yelled, only casting Adria a cursory glance. “Who did this? Holy Saint Peter, what a mess!”
“Did anyone call the police?” Zach demanded.
“Called 911, you get it all,” the manager said. A short, balding man in boxer shorts and a nightshirt, he swore at the mess. “The insurance company will shit over this one.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Zach kissed her forehead and wrapped her in his strong arms. “You’ll be okay,” he said, as if to convince himself. She shuddered and he pulled her tight against his chest. “You’ll be okay.”
She didn’t believe it for a second.
She doubted he did, either.
Failed.
You failed!
You should have killed the bitch while you had the chance. Now she’s alive, pretending to be London, bringing it all up again!
Adria’s attacker eyed the haggard reflection staring back in the mirror mounted over the hotel sink. The plan had backfired. Because Adria Nash was stronger than expected. She didn’t scare easily and now, it seemed, she wouldn’t die easily, either!
