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I glance around. It’s able-to-eat-off-the-floor clean except for the heap of computers, laptops, and electronic parts in the corner of the room.
There’s a spice rack on the wall. Each small jar is evenly spaced apart. The salt and pepper shakers have precisely the same amount, and everyone knows you use more salt than pepper. Nothing is out of place. It’s meticulously positioned. This guy has all kinds of control issues.
The front door swings open, and an average-sized man in his early thirties storms in.
He stops and glares at me from his glasses as he shoves his keys into his pocket. “Who the hell are you?”
I grin at his weak intimidation. “I’m here to pick up Amanda.”
“Amanda!” His hands ball as he starts for the hallway.
“Hey.” I grab his arm.
He comes around swinging. I know he’s left-handed by the way he put his keys in his pocket, so I’m prepared. I raise my forearm to block the hit. At the same time, I slam the palm of my hand into his chest.
He falls back onto his ass.
It was almost too easy.
I want to make him suffer. Bleed. Hurt.
He pushes himself up with his hands.
“Oh?” I pull my gloves on tighter and spread my feet. Glad I’ll get another go at the asshole. “You want to do that again?” I smile.
His front foot moves. I lift my arm to block the first shot, then the other to block the next. Before he has time to throw another punch, I deliver a quick throat strike.
He grabs his throat, gasps, and stumbles back into the wall.
Yeah, I know what it feels like. That shit hurts. You can’t breathe. Trained in martial arts, I didn’t hit him hard enough to kill the asshole, but it hurts like hell just the same.
My smile widens.
It should put him out of commission for a little while. Still, I feel cheated. I want to do a lot worse. Beat his worthless ass. Leave marks on him as he had Amanda.
Render him powerless.
Amanda walks out of the room with her bags. She pauses to look at her abuser, clutching his throat and choking for air.
I glance at her red, swollen eyes. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Her eyes avert straight ahead. She rushes by me, jetting for the front door.
I follow her. “Hey. Your phone.”
“It’s not coming with me,” she says, pushing the door open.
“Okay.” I catch up to her and point at my truck.
She gets in, and we take off.
“I’m taking you to a woman, Jane. She’s an hour from here.” I glance at her dry, cracked red hands. Probably from scrubbing the house clean for her obsessive abuser.
Abuse comes in many forms, verbal, mental and physical. It appears this woman was enduring it all.
“Jane will help you get somewhere safe.”
“Okay.” She nods, staring out the front windshield.
