Pillow Stalk (A Mad for Mod Mystery) by Diane Vallere

flew out of a nearby tree, the flapping of their wings echoing the sound of my Keds smacking the street.
    The man pulled me up by my hair and thrust me forward and I fell again. My kneecap crashed against the asphalt. My palms scraped the street. I powered my good leg underneath me and stood. “ Vola j’shiva ,” he grunted, and pushed my face into the side of the truck. I turned my head and my cheekbone slammed against the metal door. I felt for the bag still slung across my chest. My fingers closed on the scissors. I threaded my fingers through the handle and reached behind me, stabbing wildly at nothing. I tried to scream but no sound came out.
    I twisted my wrist and hacked at my ponytail, chopping at clumps of hair haphazardly. The man let go. I turned around with the scissors in my hand, but he was gone, vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
    I wanted to leave. I yanked at the door handle, repeatedly. I pulled on it over and over, so frantic I couldn’t concentrate on the simple task of unlocking the door.
    Two strong arms encircled me, pinning my own arms to my sides. I screamed and lifted my legs and pushed against the door but I couldn’t win. I wasn’t strong enough.
    “Madison, it’s Hudson, it’s okay. He’s gone. I’ve got you now.”
    “Let go of me!” I screamed and writhed in his arms. I gulped the air, panting loud, almost animalistic breaths.
    “Shhhhhh. He’s gone,” he whispered in my ear. My hacked off hair flew into my face, covering my eyes. I struggled again, trying to get free.
    “It’s okay,” he repeated. “Stop fighting me. Shhhhh,” he said. “I’m going to let you go. You can leave if you want.” His voice was a calm note to my hysteria. He relaxed his arms and placed a hand on each of my biceps, then slowly turned me around so I faced him.
    “No,” I said, and pushed my fists into his broad chest. I leaned against the truck and searched his face for answers, signals, indications that these were about to be my last minutes alive. Instead of the threat I’d felt out front of his house, he looked as scared as I felt.
    “It’s over. He’s gone.” He reached a hand out and pushed my now-freed hair out of my eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t come out sooner. I should have known.”
    “Who’s ‘he’?” I asked. As the fight or flight adrenaline wore off, it was replaced with an off-the-charts throbbing in my knee.
    “I don’t know. I thought I saw someone hanging around the house yesterday, but I didn’t pay much attention.”
    “Where’s Rocky?”
    “He ran into the house when I came outside.”
    “Can we go look for him?” My voice shook with the question and the implied companionship.
    “Your knee. You’re hurt.” He bent down as though he were going to carry me.
    “I want to walk,” I said, pushing him away. Slowly, gingerly, I advanced toward his house.
    He slung an arm around my waist and guided me to the front door. Rocky sat on one side of the screen, Hudson’s black cat Mortiboy sat on the other, hissing at him. There was a small pile of puppy poo on the welcome mat.
    “I thought I was the one who had the crap scared out of them,” I said to Hudson, trying, and failing, to make light of the attack.
    He held the front door open. “Go inside. I’ll take care of this. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hallway. I called the cops, they should be here soon.”
    Sirens wailed in the distance, almost on cue, as if to prove he was telling the truth.
    I scooped up Rocky and walked through the house. Mortiboy crossed my path and jumped onto the sofa. Good thing I’m not superstitious. I shut the bathroom door behind me and set Rocky on the toilet. He watched with eyes that trusted me, that knew I was the person to keep him safe. But who was the person to keep me safe?
    I looked at my reflection. My blonde hair hung in dirty, sweaty jagged clumps around my face. I hadn’t put on much makeup that morning and dark circles under my eyes aged me