Ilse felt odd, driving through the city streets, heading towards her apartment, at a normal, human pace. The dark skies had persisted until night. And now, again, darkness had claimed its dominion across the horizon. The streets at midnight were empty. And as Ilse made her way towards her apartment, she couldn't shake the exhaustion weighing on her. And the memories that came with it.
Under the watch of night, the recollections returned. Her hands gripped her steering wheel, her ankle stiff where it kept pressure on the gas pedal. As she moved along the roadway, her thoughts flipped back to that jail cell. Towards the woman.
Ilse hesitated. A woman? What woman? Was she just thinking of what Sawyer had said? He wouldn't rule out a woman.
But the gray figure. The person in her father's car. The second person upstairs. Heidi had thought so too. That much had been obvious. A woman. Her father's partner in crime had been a female.
This didn't help. But it did give some substance to the gray figure in Ilse's mind. To the cold, barked commands. To the look of guilt on her father's face.
Ilse spotted her apartment building ahead, and she shivered, taking the streets quickly and trying to outpace her memories.
The shadows around her, out of the corner of her eye, through the windshield, seemed looming now, like fingers stretching to grab her. Not so much dark as gray. The same gray she hadn't been able to place in her father's truck.
She had wanted Ilse to suffer. That much was clear. She had enjoyed watching Gerald Mueller harm his daughter.
Ilse shivered as more shadows stretched across the road. She pulled into the parking lot, outside her building. Like a drunk, she tottered from her vehicle, forgetting at first to click the locks. Cursing, she turned back, waiting for the blink of orange lights to confirm she'd secured her car. And then she stumbled, her legs weak and weary, her mind whirring, part of her, in that moment, as if snatched from consciousness by her own imagination.
She moved towards her building, heart pounding, eyes only partially seeing. Out of every corner of her eye, she spotted shadows. Darkness.
She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the cold grip of the keys in her right hand. The metal pressed against her flesh. The sidewalk was firm beneath her footsteps as she hastened towards the glass door to her building. She buzzed herself in.
The second floor. Just like Mr. Whitney.
She took the stairs carefully, inhaling for five seconds, exhaling for five. Trying to calm herself.
PTSD, triggered by memory, triggered by an auditory cue. The slamming of the door, like the jail cell. Like the truck.
Just because she could trace the source of her fear, didn't make it any easier to handle.
Ilse gritted her teeth, stomping up the final steps, rounding the banister, and making a beeline towards her own door.
Another shadow darted out of the corner of her eye. She didn't want to respond. Didn't want to react to her own fear.
But as the shadow drew nearer, for a faint moment, she thought she heard a tinkling bell. She looked up. A man was walking towards her. He cradled a small, toy poodle in his arm. The dog was panting happily, a little pink tongue poking past its snout. Its button eyes fixed on Ilse, its head tilted inquisitively.
As the man moved past her, Ilse smiled at the dog.
"Good evening," the man said.
Ilse nodded in greeting, and turned sideways, slipping past the fellow. He was walking awfully close to her as if ignoring the left side of the hall completely. The shadow loomed fully over her, as the man came parallel. And then, she saw the flash of something metal.
A needle. A syringe. In the man's other hand. He was whipping it towards her.
Ilse yelped, kicking out suddenly. The small dog barked twice. And then the large shadow was on her.
The dog had distracted her. She hadn't even taken a good glance at the attacker's face.
And now, he came crashing down on her like a tsunami slamming to the shore. The dog hit the ground with a bark and a whimper, but scurried off to the side, dragging a red leash. Ilse desperately ducked another swipe of the syringe. The large man was trying to grab her neck, holding her in place. He cursed, murmuring something that sounded like, "Can't beat fate twice."
Twice? She didn't know what he meant. She kicked out, hard and caught him between the legs
He yelped, grunting, and then toppled to the side, before scrambling back to try to grab her. His fingers wrapped around her ankle, pulling tightly, and trying to yank her back. She kicked him in the knee. He yelled again. This time, she scrambled towards her apartment door. But he wasn't about to stop. The large shadow came after her, yelling. The dog was barking now. The sound of the jingling bell filled the hall.
"Get off," Ilse yelled.
But the man was adamant now. Determined. He whipped the syringe down at her calf. She yanked her foot. The needle snapped on the carpeted floor. She stumbled to the ground, though. Her apartment keys went scattering. She heard a click, and then the sound of metal.
Shit. The keys had fallen through the banister.
She turned back, eyes wide in horror, but the man was already moving. He'd lost his syringe, but that meant now he had both his hands to throttle her. He fell on her, his features still cast in darkness. He stood like a ghoul, trying to grab her neck. She bit his fingers, and he howled in pain. Ilse screamed at the top of her lungs. But the sound was cut short as his hands clasped over her mouth. Heavy, gloved hands. They smelled of dog soap and biscuits.
He still tried to hold her mouth shut. She tried to scream again, but it was an impossible effort. He held her, refusing to let up.
Ilse could feel her heart pounding. She felt like she was going to fall through the floor. As if a giant black hole was opening up to swallow her. She desperately looked over her shoulder. The keys. They were lodged in the metal railing. Dangling down. They hadn't fallen completely. She reached out, desperate, trying to grab them.
She had left her gun in the car. She didn't like taking it with her. Sawyer had told her to carry it. But she wasn't comfortable yet; still, she wished she'd brought it with her now.
Then again, if she had, what if he had overpowered her, and taken it from her?
For a moment, a gloved hand against her lips, a crushing body on top of her, she struggled desperately. She tried to buck her hips. But now, she couldn't move. A hand closed on her throat, squeezing now. She saw the glimpse of something metal in the other hand. A knife? The murder weapon?
The blade in his hand began to descend towards her face. At the same time, her fingers grabbed the keys lodged in the rail. She yanked them free and jammed them, hard, towards the man's face.
Her keys hit before his knife did.
He howled in pain, reeling back all of a sudden. Ilse didn't hesitate, she scampered to her feet, and sprinted towards her apartment door. Safety. Safety. She needed to get inside. Needed to lock the doors.
She heard thumping footsteps behind her.
Then, as she rounded the banister towards her door, she slammed into another figure. A second attacker.
Ilse screamed, whirling about, keys brandished.
"Dr. Beck?" Someone was saying. "Beck? Are you okay?"
It took her second, but she calmed, blinking, breathing heavily, and she realized it was her neighbor. An older woman, with pink curlers in her hair, and a large, fluffy, pink bathrobe. The door next to Ilse's was open, yellow light spilling out, two children crowded in the door, gaping at where Ilse was breathing heavily, sobbing in fear.
"Mrs. Stein," Ilse said, gasping. "Careful. Get back inside."
"What's the matter, dear? I heard screaming?"
Ilse felt a flutter of relief, but the horror soon replaced it. She turned, keys brandished, standing protectively, sheltering Mrs. Stein. But the hall was clear. No sign of the attacker. She heard the hurried sound of footsteps. Then the door below being opened and slammed shut.
Ilse shivered, her whole body shaking.
“Ilse, are you okay?"
Ilse just stood frozen. She could feel Mrs. Stein trying to shake her shoulder, to rouse her. But the fear was flooding her now. It circled through her, rounding her blood, plunging into her organs.
Terror. Fear. Panic.
She wasn't safe. Wasn't safe.
She'd been attacked in her own home. She never should have come to the city.
The shadows in the corner of her eye had materialized. Not just gray apparitions. But attackers. Threats.
The syringe had shattered on the ground. The knife had barely missed her. She stared at her keys, hands shaking, and she closed her fist around the metal.
"Get back inside, Mrs. Stein. Please. Call the police."