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“Did you really think you could hide? Under this dinky thing?” He laughed.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t act. It felt as though she’d been injected with some paralyzing agent. When she needed to move most, her entire system shut down.
This is the end. The thought played on a hopeless and continuous loop in her head.
There were two options available—the first was to curl up in an even tighter ball with her eyes clenched shut tightly, and wait for him to do his worst. His worst could be very bad indeed. But maybe she’d at least be blessed with a quick and sure demise? Or she could roll away and fight, even if her hammering heart and gasping breath said she wasn’t up to the task and never would be.
In the end, it wasn’t her intellect that made the decision for her.
It was instinct.
When he crouched down and extended his hand toward her, it was galvanizing. That hand coming her way to yank her out of her hiding place might as well have been a gun or a knife. Or a flamethrower.
An icy calm washed over her as she propelled herself away from his grasping hand. She was beyond speech, beyond even a scream.
Once out from under the futon, she felt exposed, vulnerable. And that galvanized her even further. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him. She looked him up and down for a weapon, concealed or otherwise, but it seemed he had no more than she did—wits and a pair of hands.
She was a good twenty years younger. Fitter. More agile. She reminded herself, in her panic and fear, she had an advantage.
But he’s a man. He’s bigger. His strength is probably far beyond my capacity for brute force.
She had one thing she believed in though. Two things actually—her wits and her determination. Call this latter thing what it was, a will to live.
She made a move as though she would runfromhim.
And then, she faked him out bynotdashing the opposite way but by leaping over the futon and running straighttowardhim, arms outstretched.
He let out anoofsound as her hands connected hard with his chest. He stumbled back. She had the advantage she needed and headed straight for the glass door. She swore she felt his breath on the back of her neck as she struggled with the lock. But she managed to fling the door open wide and pass headlong into the open air. It was dusky outside, the light peculiar, gray and purple. Clouds had rolled in over the water. Rain was coming down in spatters, soft.
He was behind her. She sensed it; she dared not look over her shoulder. A moment’s advantage was all it would take for him to have the upper hand.
And he got that advantage. His hand snagged the back of her shirt. He used the leverage to fling her down to the floorboards of the boat’s deck. Her head, already in intense pain, bounced hard off the planks. She bit her tongue and tasted the copper tang of her own blood.
Rolling over, she looked up at him, vision blurred. She was certain her eyes were wide with terror.
“Don’t fight me,” he said softly. “You won’t win.”
She scrambled to her feet only to be knocked down again by him. This time, she did scream, because her arm had been sliced open by a rusting nail sticking up. The freshet of blood was alarming in its crimson display. She must have also opened a gash in her forehead because rain mixed with crimson, flowing toward her left eye.
The red ignited her rage. And her rage, another cloud, took over. She didn’t think, ponder, or wonder what she could do next.
She acted.
With a primal shriek, she lunged for him and pushed him hard.
He tumbled over the side of the boat, but held fast to her arms and brought her with him into the steely gray water, where trash, weeds, and other debris floated.
They went under, transforming the world into a deep emerald shade. Who would manage to keep the other down? Who could hold their breath longer?
Miranda managed to surface, gasping for air, only to be yanked down again by him. She kicked because he had hold of her calves. She was able to flail hard enough, right into his chest, and freed herself.
Once her head broke the surface, she scrambled to hoist herself onto the boat’s deck. But with no ladder and sides that were slimy with algae, it was difficult, if not impossible. She kept getting the upper part of her body up over the edge, only to slide back down into the freezing water.
Trey had also managed to come up and was doing his best to yank her back down below the surface.
He had no fear of killing himself in the process, as long as he took Miranda with him.
“No!” she screamed, finally finding her voice. And now, knowing that even if they weren’t visible at this very moment peoplewereclose by, she shrieked for help, her throat immediately burning, raw from her cries.
