Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
“Let me go!” I scream, shoving at him, but he won’t relent. He just keeps pulling. “Hey—hey! Get your hands off me right now.”
I summon my sternest nurse voice, the kind you only use when the rare disgruntled patient starts blaming you for everything wrong in their life, or the leering old men who think nothing of asking for a hand job.
But the creeper only holds on tighter, bruising pain grinding into my forearms, the meanest grip I’ve ever felt from another human being laying hands on me.
He jerks me in so close we’re almost nose to nose, staring into me like he’s trying to devour my soul.
One look at his eyes tells me he’s not well.
A storm of mental distress, already on the verge of breaking, if he isn’t broken already.
He might do anything.
And it’s a lot harder to defuse a mental health crisis when they’re grabbing and shaking you apart.
My heart snarls in fury and panic.
“Mister, please. Let go of me right now,” I grind out before my courage fails.
“You’ll die,” he whispers. “Get any closer and you’ll be the next to—”
Holy shit, enough!
“Let. GO!” I screech—and I reach for the rake behind me, grasping it and swinging it around with all my strength like a baseball bat.
The rake slams into his side with more of a punch than I figured this flimsy thing could pack.
His grip loosens as he stumbles away, banging himself into the yard waste bin I pulled out for the leaves and tipping it over. As he windmills backward the big bin joins him.
The clatter and tumble and banging noise matches the chaotic beating of my heart.
Now’s my chance.
I sprint for the door like there’s a rabid coyote on my heels.
I still hear him behind me as he staggers up again.
Dress shoes slapping the driveway, panting breaths, but I have a head start.
I bolt up the front steps and fling myself through the front door.
Then I slam it shut in his face before frantically twisting the lock, pushing myself against it for support, trying to just breathe.
Breathe.
I’m bowed over with my hands braced on my thighs, gasping for air that rips at my throat and lungs.
There’s a terrible second of silence.
I think he’s gone.
Until he slaps his hands against the door so hard and abruptly I almost black out.
“Leave it! Don’t go near them!” he roars. “You’re next—you’re next!”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” I shout back. “Go away, you fucking creep! I’m calling the cops!”
Oh, God.
There’s another slamming sound against the door, making it rattle in the frame. I need help right now.
I back away, staring at the frosted inset at the top of the door. Just past the half-moon of glass I can still make out his silhouette.
Phone in hand, I’m panic dialing 9-1-1 when the silhouette flicks away.
He reappears at the window once, his freakishly tall shape so murky past the curtains, but only for a second.
Soon, it’s gone again.
I hold still, frozen by fear until I throw myself at the window and fling the curtains open.
I can’t see anyone now.
Not even his weird, lanky frame running away.
He’s just gone like he never existed.
What the hell? Was he dangerous or was this some kind of sick early Halloween prank by a demented tourist?
But he didn’t look like a vacationer at all. Not dressed up like that. Not with the insanity swirling in his eyes.
And his words...
You’re next, you’re next.
You’ll die.
That feels more like a threat.
Still shaking, I retreat from the window, never taking my eyes off the empty front walk and driveway. There’s nothing out there but the green waste bin as I fumble with my phone.
The dispatcher picks up immediately, thank gawd—and it’s so weird to recognize Mallory Cross’ voice on the other end, this sweet lady who’s worked there for years.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“Mal?” I choke out, my throat hurting from the adrenaline rush. “It’s... it’s Ophelia Sanderson. Listen, someone just attacked me at my mom’s place and... and they made death threats against me. I’ve never seen him before, I just—”
“Oh, honey—honey, calm down, and let’s take it slow. Start at the beginning.”
So I do, trying to jam every little detail I can into a two-minute panic call.
“Got it,” Mallory says, clucking her tongue. “Sit tight and make sure all the doors are locked. I’m sending a patrol car right over.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, hanging up the phone.
Then I wrap my arms around myself tight and curl up on the sofa to wait.
You know it’s bad when I’m hoping for him.
I actually want them to send Grant Faircross.
How can I settle for anyone else than the only man who’s ever made me feel safe?
7
ONE STEP FORWARD (GRANT)
You want to see the shittiest parking job in the world?
Tell a man the girl he’s been fixated on since high school was just assaulted in her own fucking home, then watch him nearly plow his car across her front lawn trying to get to her.