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I undo my seat belt and turn around, looking for Sheba. She licks my face, so at least she’s up. I hope she didn’t tear her stitches open. Dr. Wentworth will kill me.
Matheson taps on the glass beside my head. The engine’s still running, so I roll my window down a crack. “It’s not bad. If you can help me push up out of the ditch, we can make it.”
I tug on my gloves and zip up my coat. “Yeah, sure.”
My door creaks and groans but won’t open, so I crawl across the console and get out on the driver’s side. My head throbs, but I don’t feel light-headed. Gingerly, I touch the side of my head, but it’s hard to tell with gloves on. I think I have a bump but no blood. Hopefully no concussion. I edge down the side of the car, holding on to the door handles to keep from busting my ass. It’s a solid sheet of ice. Like a mini spring opened up and poured across the road.
Matheson isn’t so lucky. She starts to slip, grabs at the bumper, and falls hard. “Son of a bitch. Where’d all this ice come from?”
“I don’t know. I drive this road to work every day. It wasn’t icy this morning.”
She carefully climbs to her feet and half skates, half slides away from the car toward the branch in the road. “Let me guess. This wasn’t here earlier either.”
“Nope.”
She bends down and looks at the broken branch. “Looks pretty fresh.”
Slowly, she stands and scans the woods. With a start, I realize she’s drawn her gun, though she holds it close to her side. “Ranay, I want you to get Sheba and head for the house. I’ll be right behind you.”
A shadow unfolds from the tree we crashed into and slams into Matheson. It hits her in the back, taking her down to the ground. I whirl toward the car, hoping to get the door open for Sheba, but I slip on the ice and fall so hard I can’t breathe. I taste blood. My lip throbs, a different tempo than my pounding head. Groaning, I try to get up, swimming through blackness. I’m so close. If I can get Sheba out…
“Run!” Matheson yells. Her gun blasts, a deafening roar that makes me duck.
Sheba barks, slamming against the door. I try to get her again, and something whizzes past my head and tings against the door. Terror shrills through me.
I can’t bear to see her shot again. Not for me.
Keeping low, I crawl toward the edge of the ice, slipping and sliding as quickly as possible. Charlie’s house. My fortress. That’s where I need to be. As soon as I can scramble to my feet, I race for his house without looking back to see who follows.
Please, Charlie. Be close. Be there. Waiting for me.
35
Irace up the front steps and then duck down in the shadows of the porch. My chest burns, tight in the freezing air. Running sucks any day, but especially in subzero temps. I’ll probably end up with bronchitis.Ain’t nobody got time for bronchitis.
I scan the road behind me, the row of trees. Nothing moves. But he could have cut across the woods and beat me to the house. For all I know, he’s already here. Panting, I try to think. I don’t have my keys. I left my purse in the car with Sheba. At least she’s okay. He didn’t shoot again after I fled the scene. I hope Matheson’s okay. Hopefully she can get up here or at least call for backup.
Before he kills me.
Safety waits inside the house. Once I reset the alarm, if anyone tries to get in, the police will be on their way. Assuming he isn’t already inside the house, waiting for me to show up. He got around the alarm before, at least until Sheba attacked him.
Charlie could be here. He said he was close. But how close? Did he hear the shots? Does he have any idea what’s going down?
Staying low, I reach up and test the door knob. It turns easily and the door cracks. The alarm beeps to notify the opening door, but the siren isn’t triggered. The system’s off.
Fuck. I know for a fact I locked the door and set the alarm system. Charlie could have opened it for me, but how would he know I temporarily lost my keys? More likely, it’s the killer, the man who broke in once already. It could have been Rusk in the woods, but I never saw him. Just a black blur, even his face.
If he set that trap to get me away from Matheson and Sheba at once, then he’ll be here. He wants me in the house. But where else can I go?
I dig in my pocket and pull out the slim knife. I don’t flip the blade out. Not yet. But I’ll be ready.
Pushing the door open, I scurry inside as quietly as possible. I press my back against the wall and try to breathe shallowly, quietly, waiting to let my eyes adjust to the interior. No lights shine anywhere inside, not even the microwave clock or the fridge light in the kitchen. Since I’m still by the door, I reach up over my head and feel for the light switch. I flick it up and nothing happens.
No power. The alarm would probably still go off—the door beeped at least—but I can’t count on it.
Stay small, stay quiet, stay meek and afraid. If he’s here…
I huddle against the wall, straining all my senses. Listening for any little creak of wood or shuffle. Any shadow that might hide a person. I don’t have to wait long.
