So what does one do when confronted with a cold-blooded killer holding a sledgehammer?
One runs.
Fast.
Or in my case, hobble/limp/stumble-run toward the kitchen in my ridiculously impractical bear slippers to get an equally impractical weapon to fight back.
As I skidded into the kitchen, my eyes searching for the knives in the woodblock we’d bought from some fancy chef site online, I heard Carlito yell for me.
“Miss Cartwright? Are you okay?” His footsteps followed his question, thumping ever closer.
“Am I okay?” I shrieked, grabbing the knife and holding it to my chest. “Are you crazy? I will not be taken out in my own house! Hear me? I’ve been to this rodeo and I’m prepared to defend myself! I warn you, Carlito—I’m skilled with a knife! I’ll slice you up like a lobster on a hibachi chef’s grill! Drop the sledgehammer and I’ll let you live long enough to tell the tale!”
I backed up against the fridge, eyeballing my phone on the table. If I wasn’t so beat up, I might be able to make a dash for it (because I’m sure 9-1-1 would be thrilled to hear from me twice in one day). But Carlito was young and probably much quicker than I am.
And then he came around the corner.
With the sledgehammer.
I held up the knife, and I openly acknowledge I looked like a madwoman, if my reflection in the window was any indication. My hair was sticking up from the donut I’d had around my neck earlier, rubbing against it and leaving it full of static, my wide eyes were wild and hyper-aware, and my neck was a mottled mess of black and blue.
I’d taken my shoes off when I got home and put on my big fuzzy bear slippers—because I’d heard they were all the rage with newb spies and made outrunning a killer a total breeze.
A mistake in hindsight, I guess. But I didn’t care. No way was he taking me down. So when he made a move toward me and dropped the sledgehammer, I swung the knife in the air like it was a light saber and I had the Force.
My pulse raced with adrenaline and my hands shook. This would not happen again. I was going to have the upper hand this round of How Can We Kill Stevie, if it was the last thing I did.
“Don’t you come any closer, you hear me? I’ll cut you to ribbons if you—”
“Stevie?” Win said in my ear.
“Hmm?” I murmured, my breathing uneven.
“He dropped the sledgehammer. I think he comes in peace. Ease up there, Stevie-San.”
I looked at the sledgehammer on the floor. Oh.
“Miss Cartwright? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I found the sledgehammer on the steps and I didn’t want anyone to trip on it and get hurt.” Carlito stepped forward, regret mingled with hesitation in his eyes.
My heart rate slowed in increments before I let out a sigh of relief. “So you’re not here to kill me. What a relief.” I set the knife on the table and winced.
“Kill you? I’m really confused, Miss Cartwright. Are you sure you’re okay? I heard about your brush with that food truck fish guy. Did he hit your head?”
I chuckled in irony. “No, but you’d think he did after the way I just behaved. It’s just that—”
“Oh, I get it,” he said on a nod, then smiled that lovely smile that didn’t resemble a single Bustamante’s, not even Tito’s. Though, he sure looked like his mother. “Liza told me what happened last month, and about the guy who killed her grandmother. I should have thought the sledgehammer through more thoroughly. Sorry.”
I let my shoulders relax and chuckled nervously. “It’s okay, Carlito. Liza’s right. I’m just edgy now is all. That whole mess is still a bit of a fresh wound. So what brings you here? What can I do for you?”