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Damnit.
The can fell on its side, its contents spilling out.
Soda and energy drink cans. A bottle of bleach. Fabric softener. And, yes, a few glass beer bottles.
I could use those.
But I had to keep running, around the car, putting it between us.
My heart was jackhammering then, my breathing fast and shallow. But, somehow, the adrenaline seemed like it was making my mind work faster, more clearly, instead of clouding it with anxiety and uncertainty.
“Stupid bitch. You’re going to pay for this,” he said, starting to rush around the front of the car as I moved toward the back.
I ducked down, using a precious few seconds to grab a bottle, then whacking it on the side of the car.
I used too much pressure, the neck I was holding barely having much left at the end.
But it was sharp.
It could cut.
Then, just like that, he was in front of me.
His arm raised at the same time as mine. Without giving it a second of thought, I thrust the bottle forward, right into his palm.
Hard.
So hard that what was left of the glass shattered and fell from my grip. But not before it sliced into his palm. Not before shards got embedded in his skin.
I took advantage of his distraction as he looked at his hand, then tried to rip the shards out.
I rushed past him, the only option being heading into the house.
I did it at a dead run, slamming the door to the garage, and locking it even as his fist started to pound on it.
I didn’t have long.
He would get through the door eventually.
I had to go.
The unfamiliar floor plan felt like a maze as I rushed through it.
But I didn’t miss the many kinds of restraints on the dining room table.
Ropes.
Chains.
Handcuffs.
Zip ties.
Whatever weapons he’d prepared to torture me with were nowhere to be seen, so I grabbed the chain instead, the weight enough to do some damage if I swung hard enough.
My fist closed tightly around that, I rushed toward the foyer.
Just as the door in the garage burst open.
