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Even if I could trust them to help, do I dare summon the police? Dare call attention to myself? Dare suggest that there’s a reason I’m freaking out over someone “taking shelter” in my shed?
My fingers move to the contact list. To Liam’s name.
I pull back as if burned.
Hell, no. This is just what he needs—another excuse to lock my cage even tighter. He’s already hinted at having me move in with him. This arrangement suited him fine at first, but I’m becoming a bit too... What’s the word? Independent. Can’t have that, can we?
I don’t dare do anything that gives him an excuse to push harder, to exert real pressure, the kind that comes with the vise grip of threat.
I will not call the police, and I absolutely will not call Liam. I’m trying to find a way out of this trap, not ensnare myself more.
I can handle this. I’m not the sixteen-year-old girl who left one nightmare to tumble into another. I’m not the twenty-one-year-old who fled Aaron and cowered in corners for years. I’m the woman who thought I was in control of this situation and, yep, found out otherwise in one hell of a hurry, but I’m also the woman who learns from every mistake and gets better, gets stronger.
I crawl from the window and then march downstairs, where I double-check every lock and close every drape and blind. Then I make a pot of coffee, fill the biggest mug I have and sit on the sofa, gun in hand.
It is going to be a long night.
