as dead.
“I’m going to carve you up, bitch. I’m going to make you beg.”
His shoulder rammed the door, again and again and again. Heart pounding wildly, screams echoing off the tiled walls, Christy tried to hold the lock and the door.Then, finally, as he took the hatchet to it, she was forced to jump back out of the way. With the Mace gone, she was all but defenseless. Desperately, she looked around for the phone. It could be anywhere: beneath the towels that littered the floor, behind the toilet.
There was a loud crack, and the door shot inward. Leaping back, she all but fell over the toilet.
He’d torn loose a hinge, Christy realized with horror. His hand shot through the gap that was inches wider this time to grip the edge of the door. The étagère shuddered as the door slammed furiously against it. The wicker groaned, and seemed to bend. This was it. The barrier was not going to hold—
Terror spurred her into action. Snatching up her curling iron from the back of the sink, she whacked his fingers with the metal rod. He cursed, and the hand vanished. But before she could slam the door closed again, he hit it hard. Jumping back, she slipped on her own blood and almost went down as the wastebasket crashed into the wall. There was a sharp crack as his foot came partway through the door. She could see the toe of a scuffed black work boot through the shards of wood.
“Help!” she screamed despairingly. “I need help!”
Faintly, as if from far away, she heard a muffled, rhythmic banging, as if someone who wanted in very badly was beating on the patio door. Probably it was no more than the drumming of her own pulse in her ears, but—
“Do you hear that? The police are here! They’re here!” Shrieking out what she was almost positive wasa lie, she scrambled for the door again. Not that she expected to hold him off for much longer; one or two more solid blows and he would be inside. But as she threw her body against the splintered panel she realized with disbelief that there was no resistance. She could actually almost close the door. He’d broken it so that it no longer fit properly in the frame, or she would have been able to close it all the way.
Was he gone? Impossible to believe that he could actually be gone. Or was it a trap? Was he lying in wait, hoping that she would open the door, ready to grab her if and when she did? Swallowing her screams, she put a cautious ear to the panel and listened intently.
The bedroom light came on. Christy blinked as light shone through the jagged holes the hatchet had left in the door.
“Christy?”
The knob turned beneath her hand, and the door thrust toward her again just as she was moving cautiously to peer out through the gap. Startled almost out of her wits, she screeched and jumped back. A hand curled around the edge of the door. Only this time the hand was tanned skin. No glove.
Thank God, no glove.
“Christy, it’s Luke. Are you okay?”
Luke. Breathing erratically, she looked warily through the gap and met his gaze. He was looking in at her just like the other man had done only moments before. There were differences though, wonderful, reassuring differences that she took several seconds to assimilate: his eyes were higher; his hand, even ungloved,seemed larger; his voice was different, deep, softly slurred, Southern. The light was on in the bedroom so that she could see him clearly. This was definitely her cat-loving neighbor.
“Oh my God,” she said. As she processed the fact that she was not going to die tonight after all, her knees gave out, and she collapsed in a little heap on the floor.
“Damn it to hell and back. How badly are you hurt?” She could feel his gaze on her. The door rattled as he shook it impatiently. “Christy? Christy, let me in.”
“Be careful. There’s a man in the house. He tried to—kill me.” She managed to get the warning out through teeth that would not stop chattering. She was so cold—freezing cold. And
“I’m going to carve you up, bitch. I’m going to make you beg.”
His shoulder rammed the door, again and again and again. Heart pounding wildly, screams echoing off the tiled walls, Christy tried to hold the lock and the door.Then, finally, as he took the hatchet to it, she was forced to jump back out of the way. With the Mace gone, she was all but defenseless. Desperately, she looked around for the phone. It could be anywhere: beneath the towels that littered the floor, behind the toilet.
There was a loud crack, and the door shot inward. Leaping back, she all but fell over the toilet.
He’d torn loose a hinge, Christy realized with horror. His hand shot through the gap that was inches wider this time to grip the edge of the door. The étagère shuddered as the door slammed furiously against it. The wicker groaned, and seemed to bend. This was it. The barrier was not going to hold—
Terror spurred her into action. Snatching up her curling iron from the back of the sink, she whacked his fingers with the metal rod. He cursed, and the hand vanished. But before she could slam the door closed again, he hit it hard. Jumping back, she slipped on her own blood and almost went down as the wastebasket crashed into the wall. There was a sharp crack as his foot came partway through the door. She could see the toe of a scuffed black work boot through the shards of wood.
“Help!” she screamed despairingly. “I need help!”
Faintly, as if from far away, she heard a muffled, rhythmic banging, as if someone who wanted in very badly was beating on the patio door. Probably it was no more than the drumming of her own pulse in her ears, but—
“Do you hear that? The police are here! They’re here!” Shrieking out what she was almost positive wasa lie, she scrambled for the door again. Not that she expected to hold him off for much longer; one or two more solid blows and he would be inside. But as she threw her body against the splintered panel she realized with disbelief that there was no resistance. She could actually almost close the door. He’d broken it so that it no longer fit properly in the frame, or she would have been able to close it all the way.
Was he gone? Impossible to believe that he could actually be gone. Or was it a trap? Was he lying in wait, hoping that she would open the door, ready to grab her if and when she did? Swallowing her screams, she put a cautious ear to the panel and listened intently.
The bedroom light came on. Christy blinked as light shone through the jagged holes the hatchet had left in the door.
“Christy?”
The knob turned beneath her hand, and the door thrust toward her again just as she was moving cautiously to peer out through the gap. Startled almost out of her wits, she screeched and jumped back. A hand curled around the edge of the door. Only this time the hand was tanned skin. No glove.
Thank God, no glove.
“Christy, it’s Luke. Are you okay?”
Luke. Breathing erratically, she looked warily through the gap and met his gaze. He was looking in at her just like the other man had done only moments before. There were differences though, wonderful, reassuring differences that she took several seconds to assimilate: his eyes were higher; his hand, even ungloved,seemed larger; his voice was different, deep, softly slurred, Southern. The light was on in the bedroom so that she could see him clearly. This was definitely her cat-loving neighbor.
“Oh my God,” she said. As she processed the fact that she was not going to die tonight after all, her knees gave out, and she collapsed in a little heap on the floor.
“Damn it to hell and back. How badly are you hurt?” She could feel his gaze on her. The door rattled as he shook it impatiently. “Christy? Christy, let me in.”
“Be careful. There’s a man in the house. He tried to—kill me.” She managed to get the warning out through teeth that would not stop chattering. She was so cold—freezing cold. And
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