Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Too late, of course, to scream, to alert neighbors. And because Levee had been there with me for a few nights, my trusty knife was in the knife drawer where it belonged, not beside me.
A panicked whimper escaped me, muffled against my attacker’s hand.
“Can’t leave it alone, huh?” he asked, making me blink at the darkness, trying to adjust to it, to get a good look at him.
If I could just really see one of them, I could draw up a sketch to bring to the police.
My hands shot out instinctively, reaching toward his face. Being met not with flesh, but the scratchy material of a ski mask.
“Didn’t want it to come to this,” he added as his free hand slid to my throat.
No.
No, this couldn’t be happening, damnit.
The pressure on my throat had my heart rate tripping into overdrive, beating harder in my neck, in my head.
I would love to say that some innate instinct to survive kicked in, that I suddenly developed some sort of superhuman strength, or that some karate moves from a TV show popped up into my head, allowing me to get this man off of me in mere seconds.
None of that would be true.
I flailed, slapping my hands into his face, balling up my fists and punching his arms.
None of it had any impact.
And my face was starting to feel fuzzy.
Time seemed to slow down.
But my mind raced. A million thoughts rushed around, crashed into each other.
Leaving me with just two separate, singular thoughts.
I was never going to see Levee again.
And I was going to die without even knowing who my killer was.
It wasn’t sudden bravery on my part that made any sort of difference. It was the impatience of my attacker that gave me the slightest chance to live.
Frustrated that I wasn’t, you know, dying quickly enough, his hand that was strictly covering my mouth lifted to, I assume, try to cover my nose as well to cut off all of my air.
But in doing so, there was just enough room for me to suck in a breath and scream bloody freaking murder.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, pressing his hand more firmly against my face, making my still-sore nose scream in pain.
But that was nothing compared to the way panic and fear reached a fever pitch as I suddenly couldn’t draw in any air.
This was when some sort of real survival instinct kicked in, making me strike out, writhe, try to pull my legs up to kick out.
The struggle only seemed to make me run out of oxygen even faster, though.
That fuzziness from before became blackness closing in on my vision.
This was it.
This was the end.
But even as I felt like I was being pulled under, there was a loud sound in my apartment.
It wasn’t my attacker. It was further away.
My door, maybe? Smacking against the wall from being thrown open?
Was someone coming to my rescue?
But even as I thought I might have heard a voice, I realized they were too late.
I was gone.
—
Even at the brink of death, the body’s instinct to survive was strong.
I wasn’t conscious of starting to do it, but as I sucked in a violent breath, I folded upright on the couch.
My heartbeat, so close to giving up, started to slam so hard in my chest that it seemed like it was punching against my ribs.
My hand flew to my chest as I sucked in fast, frantic breaths. Both the need for oxygen and the panic had me hyperventilating.
I couldn’t say how long it was until I could think a single thought other than breathing and panic.
When I did, though, I shot off the couch, ready to fight, to run, to…
But the attacker was gone.
In his place?
William.
Sitting in his electric wheelchair, using it to bar the door.
“He’s gone,” he said, making me sink back down onto the couch, my legs shaking so hard I was worried I might fall.
“You’re… sure?” I gasped between deep breaths.
“Yep,” William confirmed, watching me with a faraway look. “Ran off like he had a fire up his ass. ‘Course, I would too,” he said, reaching to tap something down by his leg.
It was only then I realized what about an old gentleman in a wheelchair could scare a man into running away from his crime.
The shotgun he likely had raised in his hand as he came barging in.
The door slamming against the wall.
That was William, of all people, coming to my rescue.
I tried to think the best of most people. But I kind of expected that if William heard me being brutally murdered, he would grumble about the racket and turn up his TV program.
This was… pleasantly surprising. And, you know, life-saving.
“Thank you,” I said as tears flooded my eyes, realizing how close I was to never seeing my family again, never seeing my work in a gallery, making love with Levee again, having and raising the babies I so desperately wanted.