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I went perfectly still.
Because I recognized her.
Shorter than me. Light brown hair. Pale skin. Dark brown eyes. Around my age, but probably a bit older.
She’d be pretty, if the fact she was unhinged wasn’t an aura that pulsated from her.
She was the woman, months ago, who was standing outside my offices that Sunday morning after the Blazing the Trail gala.
I knew then she was also Hale Wheeler’s number one fan.
I lifted my hand her way and started, “Okay, I—”
That was all I got out.
She whispered, “He’s mine.”
Then her hands came from behind her, and she slashed at me with a knife.
I felt the blade cut through the flesh of my hand, and I screamed bloody murder, the noise ricocheting around the bathroom fueled by adrenaline and filled with fear and pain.
Instantly, my mind flooded with thoughts, trying to decide on retreat, and closing the door on her, or advance, pushing her away and running.
I was wearing four-inch heels, she was not, and there were gaps at the bottom of the stalls she could get under.
I could kick her if she tried that.
All this flew through my head in less than a second as she pulled her hand with the knife back in preparation to deliver another, deadlier strike.
I took that opportunity and reached out, pushed her at her chest, getting my arm slashed in the process. I felt the pain. The blood swell and ooze over. But she fell back.
And I stepped back, slammed the door and locked it.
Then I fumbled with my purse to get out my phone.
My hand hurt like crazy. My arm.
But…
911, or Hale?
Hale would be faster.
But she had a knife.
Then I wondered what I was doing.
Noise.
Always make noise.
I screamed again, this time words, “She has a knife! In here! She has a knife!”
She banged on the stall door twice, then I saw her down below, trying to crawl underneath.
She led with the knife, so I stomped on her arm.
And suddenly, she disappeared, like she was pulled from the other way.
