You should’ve known better, an inner voice scolded. In the informal atmosphere of the restaurant, I’d let my guard down, something I never would’ve done at the office. I’d allowed myself to forget that he was my boss. I’d let myself get seduced into seeing him as a man, and into enjoying his company as such. At home, as I climbed the stairs to the second floor, I vowed to never make that mistake again.
Midway up the stairs, the upstairs hallway light went out. If it hadn’t been for the pale moonlight shining the skylight over the stairwell, I would’ve been in utter darkness. As it was, the moon lit the way to the landing. I felt for the light switch on the wall and flipped it. Nothing happened. Darn. No way was I going to replace a blown fuse or light bulb at that time of night.
Holding onto the stairway railing, I made my way down the short dark corridor to my bedroom door. As I put my hand on the knob, the point of a something hard and sharp was pressed against my lower back. I froze.
“Go on inside,” said a muffled male voice. “Go on.”
“Who are you? What do you want? If it’s money, I—”
“Bitch, open the door and get inside.”
I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “No.”
“What?”
“No!”
I raised my right foot and slammed it down on where I hoped his instep would be, but I hit the hardwood floor instead. He swung me around and slapped me so hard I fell back against the wall. I had a brief impression of bright, pale eyes—Echo’s eyes—before he punched me in my side. I cried out and buckled over in pain.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “If I meant to kill you, you’d be dead by now. If I wanted to fuck you, I would’ve done that, too.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, I still might.”
“What do you want?”
“For you to mind your own business. If you don’t, then what happened to Esther Todd will happen to you.”
Terror stabbed my heart.
“Tell Whitfield,” I said through clenched teeth, “that I am not afraid. I—”
“You stupid, stupid bitch!”
He shoved me to the floor, face down, and dropped down on top of me, forcing my arms to the floor. He was lithe and agile and strong. Straddling me, he clamped a large, leather-clad hand around the back of my neck and pressed the tip of a blade against the right side of my throat.
“You think this is some kind of fucking game?”
I swallowed, unable to answer.
“If it was up to me,” he hissed in my ear, “I’d do you right here, right now and get it over with, but Mr. Whitfield wants to give you a second chance. Just step out of line again, and I’ll be back. And next time, I’ll make sure it’s worth my time.” He licked the side of my face. “You got me?”
Nauseated, I gave a shuddering nod.
“Good.”
The next instant, he was gone. I looked up in time to see a black shadow deeper than darkness move swiftly down the stairs. Seconds later came the sound of the front door closing.
Trembling, I pushed myself to my feet. My head throbbed and I felt sick to my stomach. With shaking hands I pushed open my bedroom door and slipped inside. I closed the door and sagged against it, letting my purse slide to the floor. I was trembling so badly I could barely stand. Nausea hit me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and scrambled down the hall to the bathroom, making it just in time.
After rinsing my mouth and dousing my face with cool water, I leaned on the washbasin. For a couple of minutes, I had to grip the wash sink. I’d expected Whitfield to retaliate, but not like that. Given Hilda Coleman’s warnings, maybe I should’ve. But I hadn’t expected him to choose violence. Not as his first recourse.
Then again, maybe he’d thought he had no choice. He must’ve figured out that I was writing under deadline. He didn’t have time for niceties.
Should I call the police? But what would that bring? I’d say Whitfield was behind it; he would deny it. It would be his word against mine. I decided not to call the police. I would fight with the one weapon I had.
My column.