Chapter Thirty-Four

MIRANDA WATCHED HIM from behind the futon, searching for her. He was looking in cabinets, under the bed, upending the tiniest things, things which would be impossible for hiding. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he said under his breath, the words singsong.

Somehow, despite a driving headache that actually throbbed the color red and fear so great it shut almost everything down in her system, she had the advantage.

He doesn’t know where I am.

At least for the moment.

She needed to keep it that way until she could reclaim some of her strength, which had been sapped by the brutal blow to the back of her head. Even now, it felt as though her skull had been cracked open, the wound wet. It throbbed. She still couldn’t determine, in the houseboat’s grimy interior, what he had hit her with. Whatever it was, she knew one thing—he’d strike her with it again if given the chance.

And he’d make sure a second blow would be fatal.

The clock ticked down. The boat was small. There wasn’t much furniture. It wouldn’t be long, moments maybe, before he discovered where she was.

If only she didn’t have this pain! If only she had more time. If only someone would miraculously arrive on the scene to rescue her.

If only. If only…

It was all up to her now.

Peering through the shadows, she looked toward the kitchen counter, hoping to see knives or at least one knife. But the counter was bare.

It was both a relief and a curse that there were no knives—none that she could see anyway. It meant she wouldn’t be able to pack that particular weapon in her arsenal. Arsenal? Ha! The good news was that he didn’t have the advantage of a knife either. Miranda shuddered at the thought of a knife penetrating her anyway.

As far as she knew, he didn’t have a gun.

He was dressed in a thin T-shirt and shorts, feet bare.

One option was that she could simply stand, reveal herself, and try to take him on.

She was young. Strong. Two semesters ago, she’d taken a women’s self-defense course at a community center in Wallingford. She’d forgotten most of what she’d learned, but assumed adrenaline and muscle memory might be her friends, returning when desperately needed.

It sounded logical, but not logical enough to reassure, to allay her terror.

He drew near and started rounding the edge of the futon.

“I know where you are. Just make it easy on yourself. Come out and we can talk. Promise not to hurt you.”

If you know where I am, why are you trying to coax me out?

She rolled beneath the futon, curling into a fetal position to make herself as small as possible. The floor under here was even more filthy, with dust bunnies so large Miranda wondered if they could double as small tumbleweeds.

She prayed she wouldn’t sneeze.

And then—all at once—his gaze was upon her. His eyes shocked all fear, reason, and even thought out of her. She simply went numb, uncurling.

“Did you really think you could hide? Under this dinky thing?” He laughed.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t act. It felt as though she’d been injected with some paralyzing agent. When she needed to move most, her entire system shut down.

This is the end. The thought played on a hopeless and continuous loop in her head.

There were two options available—the first was to curl up in an even tighter ball with her eyes clenched shut tightly, and wait for him to do his worst. His worst could be very bad indeed. But maybe she’d at least be blessed with a quick and sure demise? Or she could roll away and fight, even if her hammering heart and gasping breath said she wasn’t up to the task and never would be.

In the end, it wasn’t her intellect that made the decision for her.

It was instinct.

When he crouched down and extended his hand toward her, it was galvanizing. That hand coming her way to yank her out of her hiding place might as well have been a gun or a knife. Or a flamethrower.

An icy calm washed over her as she propelled herself away from his grasping hand. She was beyond speech, beyond even a scream.

Once out from under the futon, she felt exposed, vulnerable. And that galvanized her even further. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from him. She looked him up and down for a weapon, concealed or otherwise, but it seemed he had no more than she did—wits and a pair of hands.

She was a good twenty years younger. Fitter. More agile. She reminded herself, in her panic and fear, she had an advantage.

But he’s a man. He’s bigger. His strength is probably far beyond my capacity for brute force.

She had one thing she believed in though. Two things actually—her wits and her determination. Call this latter thing what it was, a will to live.

She made a move as though she would run from him.

And then, she faked him out by not dashing the opposite way but by leaping over the futon and running straight toward him, arms outstretched.

He let out an oof sound as her hands connected hard with his chest. He stumbled back. She had the advantage she needed and headed straight for the glass door. She swore she felt his breath on the back of her neck as she struggled with the lock. But she managed to fling the door open wide and pass headlong into the open air. It was dusky outside, the light peculiar, gray and purple. Clouds had rolled in over the water. Rain was coming down in spatters, soft.

He was behind her. She sensed it; she dared not look over her shoulder. A moment’s advantage was all it would take for him to have the upper hand.

And he got that advantage. His hand snagged the back of her shirt. He used the leverage to fling her down to the floorboards of the boat’s deck. Her head, already in intense pain, bounced hard off the planks. She bit her tongue and tasted the copper tang of her own blood.

Rolling over, she looked up at him, vision blurred. She was certain her eyes were wide with terror.

“Don’t fight me,” he said softly. “You won’t win.”

She scrambled to her feet only to be knocked down again by him. This time, she did scream, because her arm had been sliced open by a rusting nail sticking up. The freshet of blood was alarming in its crimson display. She must have also opened a gash in her forehead because rain mixed with crimson, flowing toward her left eye.

The red ignited her rage. And her rage, another cloud, took over. She didn’t think, ponder, or wonder what she could do next.

She acted.

With a primal shriek, she lunged for him and pushed him hard.

He tumbled over the side of the boat, but held fast to her arms and brought her with him into the steely gray water, where trash, weeds, and other debris floated.

They went under, transforming the world into a deep emerald shade. Who would manage to keep the other down? Who could hold their breath longer?

Miranda managed to surface, gasping for air, only to be yanked down again by him. She kicked because he had hold of her calves. She was able to flail hard enough, right into his chest, and freed herself.

Once her head broke the surface, she scrambled to hoist herself onto the boat’s deck. But with no ladder and sides that were slimy with algae, it was difficult, if not impossible. She kept getting the upper part of her body up over the edge, only to slide back down into the freezing water.

Trey had also managed to come up and was doing his best to yank her back down below the surface.

He had no fear of killing himself in the process, as long as he took Miranda with him.

“No!” she screamed, finally finding her voice. And now, knowing that even if they weren’t visible at this very moment people were close by, she shrieked for help, her throat immediately burning, raw from her cries.

And then he had her. She gasped, choking, as he ripped her away from the deck.

She went under, and her cries cut out, replaced by bubbles and muffled screaming. He forced her head down, while he kicked up toward the surface.

Her lungs burned, felt as though they were about to explode.

Something snapped inside, and the green of her view morphed into black.