No matter where she went or what she did, Isabel Vargas couldn’t escape him.
Some days were better than others, but Thursdays were the worst. The one night of the week she closed her art gallery alone so her best friend and assistant, Brenda, could take a yoga class across town with the hottest instructor in Santa Monica.
The one night she relived the traumatic encounter with her ex. Remembered the bruises, his breath on the back of her neck, his angry hands on her skin. His body holding hers captive. The malevolent rasp of his voice, his vile words pouring into her ears, punctuated by one delusional phrase he kept repeating. I love you.
The doorbell rang. She jumped at the buzzing sound, her heart racing. Drawing in a deep breath, Isabel calmed herself. She powered down her laptop, grabbed her quilted-leather purse and turned off the lights on the upper level of the gallery. Going as slowly as possible, she hoped whoever was at the locked front door would go away.
Please, don’t be him. Please.
The doorbell buzzed again, pitching her nerves higher. She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out the tan bottle. Tiny white pills rattled inside. Her therapist had prescribed Ativan after her last incident with him, which had necessitated a restraining order. Isabel refused to think or speak his name. Doing so only gave him power when she needed to reclaim it.
She’d started jogging three miles every other morning, taken up boxing, Krav Maga and city-safety classes for women. She even got a dog. A ferocious Doberman named McQueen that she’d had trained as a guard dog. Keeping him in the office had proven too confined a space and customers got antsy around him in the gallery, so he was at doggie day care on Montana Avenue.
From the railing that overlooked the ground floor, she couldn’t see who was at the front door. The bell rang in frantic succession. The irritating buzzer reverberated inside her.
Isabel popped the lid, put a pill in her mouth and swallowed it dry. Twice a day, every day. It kept the benzodiazepine in her system and her on an even keel.
She took her time down the stairs, her Jimmy Choos clacking against the dark hardwood of the steps. At the bottom, she saw a man wearing a suit and tie standing out front.
Spotting her, he banged on the glass door. “Hi! I was hoping someone was still here.”
She edged closer. “What do you want?”
“I know you just closed ten minutes ago.”
Every Thursday, at seven on the dot, she locked the door and finished wrapping up until she was ready to leave.
“You’re usually open until eight,” he said, glancing at the sign. “Except Thursdays, apparently. It’s my anniversary and my wife has been dying to get that painting, the waterfall by Kush.” He pointed to the far-left wall behind her, but she didn’t turn and look at it.
Isabel kept her eyes on the man.
He was clean-cut and appeared pleasant enough, but the same had been said about Ted Bundy. The United States had more serial killers than any other country and Isabel knew firsthand what kind of twisted soul could hide behind a dazzling smile and a good suit.
“Sorry.” She lifted the flap of her purse and stuck her hand inside, fumbling over her EpiPen and grabbing hold of her pepper spray. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” No one ever died from too much paranoia.
“Oh, please. I’m only ten minutes late. Don’t make my wife suffer for my poor planning.” He looked exasperated and distraught.
If he was being genuine, Isabel felt for him and his wife, but it wasn’t her problem. “No purchases after closing, but tomorrow, I’ll give you a ten percent discount.” She’d take the money out of her forty percent commission. “I’ll even write a note apologizing to your wife on your behalf, telling her it was my fault the gift was a day late.”
“If I don’t come home with the Kush, she might finally divorce me.” His voice grew more insistent. “I’d hate to lose the best woman in the world because I ran ten minutes behind. Please. Can you help me?”
Isabel pulled out her pepper spray with her left hand and pointed it in his direction—a show of force that she meant business despite the door separating them—and took out her cell phone with her right. “Leave. Now. Or I call the cops.”
“Whoa, lady.” He put up both hands. “I’ll buy her jewelry instead.” With a scowl, he backed up to the curb, then he ran across the street, hopped in his Lexus and sped off.
“Good luck,” she muttered under her breath. All the jewelry stores in the area were closed too by now. She dialed the valet at the parking garage she used two blocks down. “Hi, Jim, it’s Isabel.”
“Ready for your car?” he asked in an always cheery voice.
“Yes.”
“It’ll be waiting for you by the time you get here.”
“Thank you.” She hung up.
Smiling, Isabel tossed the mace and phone back in her purse. She turned off the rest of the lights and grabbed the Patrón Añejo tequila from behind the front counter.
The bottle was for Jim. He didn’t have to go out of his way to accommodate her, sparing her the curbside wait while he went to fetch the vehicle. She showed her appreciation with a bottle of his favorite spirit once a month. It was easier to hand him a fiver when she picked up her car, but the personal touch of getting to know someone and making them feel special was important.
Her gallery was on the one block within a quarter mile that had a red curb, prohibiting parking, thanks to the fire hydrant and bus stop. She’d kill to have a parking meter out front she could feed all day. Proprietors had authorized spots around the back of the shops, but the rear door was steel, and anyone could be waiting on the other side. Anyone of course being him.
The back-side parking was also isolated, away from public view and passersby who might be able to save her life by calling the cops. Lord knew she certainly couldn’t depend on any help beyond someone dialing 911.
She peered through the large display window, to the left and right, cursing the angle of the alcove in front. It was a great spot to hang a backdrop and photograph people as they arrived for special events, but it also limited her view. She scanned across the street.
Nothing. All clear as far as she could tell.
But unease slithered through her, making her shoulder blades hitch together. She had that familiar feeling again that she was being watched. Maybe it was her pervasive paranoia, which had become her new normal. Maybe it was just another Thursday when the memories surfaced, putting her on edge. Or maybe someone was out there, watching her.
Once she got to her car, she’d be all right, she told herself.
After grabbing her keys, Isabel set the alarm, unlocked the door and stepped outside. A creepy-crawly prickle shot down her spine, but she tried to shake it off.
She turned to lock up. First, the bottom latch on the handle and then the dead bolt at the top, but the key wouldn’t go in.
She summoned her patience with a deep breath that did little to relieve her tension. Trying to tamp down the hopped-up energy zipping along her nerves, she double-checked that she had the right key and tried sliding it in the slot again.
Darn it. For the third time, it wouldn’t go in. Was the problem the key or the lock?
Bending over for a closer look, she saw what was wrong.
The keyhole was jammed with something. What the hell?
A shadow lunged up behind her.
The hot burn of alarm flared through her chest. Isabel whirled around, sucking in a fearful breath. A man she’d never seen before had her blocked in. Five-o’clock shadow. Dark, hateful eyes. The hood of his zip-up jacket was pulled over his head.
Steel glinted in the dying sunlight. A cold knife pressed against her throat as panic slammed into her.
He shoved her backward. “Scream and I’ll cut you,” he said in a low, harsh voice.
Her throat constricted. Her mouth went dry. She shut her eyes against a shattering sense of chaos and the stark threat of violence.
“Give me your weekly bank deposit,” he demanded.
Brenda made the deposit on Wednesdays. Sometimes Fridays. She found her voice, the words like gravel in her throat. “We never make deposits on Thursdays.” Her heart thundered in her ears. She pressed her lips together as if the small gesture would keep the rest of her from falling apart.
She hadn’t learned how to defend against weapons yet in her Krav Maga class. There was nothing she could do with the knife to her throat.
Stay calm. Cooperate.
“Don’t lie to me. I want the bank deposit.”
Tears stung her eyes. Something brittle inside her cracked. “I’m not lying.” Her voice was steady, but she trembled with terror.
“Don’t think I won’t slit your throat,” he said, with the blade still to her jugular.
Her whole life flashed before her eyes along with all the things she’d never done, but that she wanted to live long enough to experience.
What am I supposed do?
Think, Isabel.
“Give me your wallet,” he snarled.
His caustic words brought everything into sudden clarity. It was the same phrase her Krav Maga instructor used in practice.
She pulled herself together. More or less. Her body tensed. The breath stalled in her lungs. Muscle memory from training firing up, she found her center.
“Take it.” She dropped the keys and opened the flap of her purse, coiling in readiness.
As he looked down, going for her wallet, the knife lowered, easing away from her throat.
With a quick, powerful thrust, she struck his face with the heel of her right palm. A distinctive crunch and the flow of blood from his nostrils told her she’d broken his nose.
“Ah!” He cupped his face as a gurgling noise came from him. Furious eyes flashed up at her.
Isabel prepared to throw an elbow strike, to kick and claw.
But then he lunged at her like a rocket.
Oh, God!