by Pam Godwin
She wasn’t ready to do that. Maybe paranoia was getting the best of her, but something about their interaction in his truck made her scalp tingle.
If only she had family or a close girlfriend to call, someone she could ask for help.
She had no one.
She was utterly, completely alone.
What was happening outside her little bubble? Was Mason looking for her? Was Evan still collecting her mail? She knew in her bones that Tommy was out there somewhere, hunting her right now.
She’d worked herself into a corner with nowhere to go. Her cash was dwindling. Her panic was rising. She was running out of time.
The only thing she’d achieved by coming here was healing her body back to full health. But if Tommy found her, when he found her, he would hurt her all over again.
It was horrifying that someone had monitored her for six months. But even more frightening was the thought of Tommy crashing through that door.
The fear he instilled in her was crippling, and she fucking loathed him for that.
Stepping to the covered window, she inched the curtain aside, just a sliver, and scrutinized the empty parking lot. The setting sun created shadows across the cracked pavement and arid wasteland surrounding it.
Nothing in sight for miles. No looming danger. The world went on without her.
As if the past week had never happened.
Maybe she was delusional. Overacting. Wasting her time here. Hiding for no reason.
She released the curtain and yanked down the neckline of her shirt. Stroking her thumb over the curve of her breast, she traced one of the dozens of bite marks that covered her body.
Tommy had positively happened. He was real. His rage, passion, and intensity had been as authentic as hers, and if she didn’t do something soon, he would show up here more furious than ever.
Mason still lived in El Paso, a three-hour drive away. She could call him, and if she detected anything suspicious in his voice, she would have time to ditch the phone and put distance between herself and this town. She would steal a damn car if needed.
But was it worth the risk?
Just to ask why he’d reported her missing?
She really needed to know.
Moving to the bed, she sat on the edge and dialed his number from memory.
He answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Why did you file a missing-persons report on me?”
“Rylee.” The relief in his sigh chafed her nerves. “Thank God. I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”
“Answer the question, Mason.”
“Tell me where you are. If you’re in trouble—”
“I’m on vacation. So imagine my surprise when Dean Hodge showed up, looking for me.”
“Why did they send him? I hate that sleazy creep. He has a hard-on a mile long for you.”
“You know what’s creepy? The fact that you know everyone I work with, even though we’ve been divorced for ten years, and I have a restraining order against you.”
“The restraining order expired.”
“I’ll file another one.”
“On what grounds? I love you, Rylee. My life is a goddamn meaningless pit without you. How long are you going to make me pay for a mistake I made when I was a kid?”
“You were thirty-one when you cheated on me, and as you already know, my grudges last forever. Why did you call my place of employment and report me missing?”
The sounds of his breaths rasped through the phone for several seconds. “Your neighbor contacted me.”
Shock chilled her spine as she lurched to her feet, heart racing. “My neighbor?”
“Evan Phillips. He said you were acting scared and disappeared.”
“That’s not at all what happened.” Her lungs crashed together as she raced to the window, obsessively checking the parking lot. “If he was so concerned about my whereabouts, why didn’t he call the police himself? Why would he call you?”
“You’ll have to ask him that question.”
“It doesn’t make sense. He’s collecting my mail. I told him I was leaving and where I was going.”
“Because you’re fucking him.”
“What?” Outrage whooshed through her veins and rang in her ears. “Are you watching me, Mason?”
“I keep tabs on you. Always have. I can’t let go, Rylee. I refuse to give you up.”
She waited for an itch, a tingle of sentiment, and felt nothing.
Should she ask him about Paul Kissinger? If he didn’t hire the man, the question would raise flags and needlessly involve him. If he were already involved, he would lie.
Because he was a dishonest, dirtbag cheater.
She had a remarkable gift for attracting the worst of the worst men.
“Tell me why you think I’m sleeping with Evan.” Her voice rose several octaves, all patience gone. “Tell me right fucking now!”
“When he called me, I asked him outright, and he confirmed it.”
Was Mason lying about that? Was he jealous enough, obsessed enough, to hire a man to watch her fuck her neighbor?
“I hate it.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “I hate every second you spend with other men because it’s another second you’re not with me. I hate that I had the entire world in my arms, in my bed, and I lost it all. I only have myself to blame. I lost you because I’m an idiot. You were the only woman I’d ever been with, and at the time, I thought…”
“You needed to play the field? How was the grass on the other side? Was it greener?”
“No. God, Rylee. No one compares to you. You’re stunning beyond words, and every year that you age, you only look younger and more gorgeous. You’re hard-working. Intelligent. Compassionate.” His tone deepened. “A hellion in bed. But most of all, you were a devoted and faithful wife. You gave me one-hundred percent of your love, and I squandered it like a fool.”
She’d never told him about the bridge. They’d never discussed the affair or anything that happened after. This was the longest conversation she’d allowed him to have with her since the divorce.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m wherever you’re not, and it’s going to remain that way. If I see you again, I’ll file another restraining order.”
She hung up and tossed the phone.
A tremor started at the base of her skull and worked its way down her spine. Within seconds, she was shaking. Fighting tears. Shivering in a cold sweat.
“Fuck you, Mason.” She swatted at the moisture that leaked from her eyes, her voice soft, deadened. “Fuck you.”
Outside, nightfall descended. She sat on the bed until the room went dark. She didn’t turn on the lights, didn’t want to draw attention to the room from anyone who might drive by.
She couldn’t go home.
Maybe Mason had lied about Evan’s phone call. Maybe he was telling the truth, and Evan was…what? Stalking her? Trying to control her life? She was a criminal psychologist, for fuck’s sake. Her entire job was examining criminal behavior and diagnosing mental health conditions. How could she not detect red flags with the man she’d been sleeping with for the past year?
She just couldn’t. It didn’t fit Evan’s personality.
He has hundreds of photos of you on his personal computer.
Was that a criminal offense? No, but it made him a suspect. If he was capable of involving Paul Kissinger, Dean Hodge, and her ex-husband in some unknown scheme, he was capable of tracking her phone if she called him.
Contacting Evan was out of the question. Not until she had more information.
And she couldn’t rule out the most threatening possibility.
Tommy had a nefarious history with a list of enemies that stretched from Canada to South America. Her connection to him was the emails. How someone could discover that she was reading them was beyond her technical understanding. She’d had access to the Tommysgirl account for ten years, yet Paul had only been watching her for six months.
> All of this buzzed through her mind as she lay in the dark. Every creak and bump made her jump. Even the silence rose the hairs on her arms.
After failing her marriage, she’d given up her reliance on people. She stopped depending on and trusting in all men. Avoiding relationships protected her from repeating the unspeakable pain she’d experienced on the bridge. Being alone had kept her safe for ten years.
But she didn’t feel safe right now.
And she’d never felt so alone.
That night, she didn’t sleep well. The next day brought more of the same—eating, napping, and chasing her thoughts in circles. Her supplies were running out, and the room was only paid for through one more night.
She would have to check-out tomorrow and call Dean.
Or hitchhike to another country. A far more appealing option.
Hours after dusk on the fourth night, she turned on the shower and set out clean clothes. While the water warmed up, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the dark room. From the nightstand, she grabbed the butcher knife she’d taken from Tommy’s house.
Keeping the lights off gave her a false sense of comfort. If someone wanted to find her badly enough, a dark motel room wouldn’t deter them. But she refused to cast a moving shadow on the curtains and make herself an easy target.
Showering in a motel room conjured the most terrifying murder scenes put on film. Psycho, Evil Dead, Friday the 13th, A Nightmare On Elm Street. She tightened her hand on the knife handle, working herself into a stupid panic.
A demented serial killer wasn’t going to sneak in and slash her in the shower.
Steam drifted out of the bathroom, and her feet remained rooted to the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to undress.
Come on, Rylee.
With a calming breath, she crept toward the external door, checked the flimsy lock, and reseated the swing bar latch. Both were secured. But she didn’t feel secure.
She shifted to the window and peered through the crack between the curtains. Expecting to find the parking lot empty as usual, she jerked at the sight of a car.
Parked next to the office, it sat empty. A middle-aged man stood inside at the front desk, wearing a suit that looked wildly out of place.
Her blood pressure skyrocketed.
He wasn’t a local detective. Not in a full suit. He didn’t belong here.
She couldn’t breathe.
The clerk stood, bending over the desk, and pointed at Rylee’s room.
Trembling, reeling into gasping hysterics, she stumbled away from the window.
He was coming for her.
She spun and raced toward the bathroom, operating on impulse. A hot mist fogged the mirror and hung in the air as she yanked the shower curtain closed. Keeping the water running, she backed out of the bathroom and shut the door.
The gap beneath the king-sized bed allowed just enough space for her to fit. She squeezed herself into the hiding spot, her cheek against the carpet, which reeked of maple syrup and cigarette smoke.
Once every inch of her was out of view, she lay on her stomach, chin to the floor, angled toward the foot of the bed, with her fingers slick and clammy around the hilt of the knife.
No amount of knocking would convince her to come out and open that door. If local law enforcement wanted to talk to her, they could send a guy who looked like a small-town detective during daylight hours.
The wait was petrifying, the silence deafening. Perspiration beaded on her brow as her panic-stricken heart tore through her chest, searching for a way out.
She didn’t detect approaching footsteps. Didn’t hear a fist against the door. When the hush broke, it detonated in a spray of splintered wood.
The door swung open, pieces of it scattering the floor inches from her face. A bullet had done that. Without the report of gunfire.
His weapon had a suppressor, like something out of a fucking mafia movie.
He was going to kill her.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, smothering the burst of her breaths as she slid the knife across the carpet in front of her.
The intruder strode in, making a beeline for the bathroom. Shiny dress shoes blurred by. Soundless footsteps. Determined. Deadly.
If she slipped out of hiding now, he would shoot her. Not that she could move. Ice encased her joints. Tears leaked from her eyes, her dread so cold and heavy it pressed her into the floor.
He stopped at the bathroom door and quietly opened it. Then he stepped back and fired into the cloud of steam.
Phut. Phut. Phut. Phut. Phut.
She flinched with each muffled shot, shaking violently as bullet casings dropped to the floor.
He paused. She stopped breathing.
Right about now, he was coming to the realization that a body hadn’t fallen in the shower. He would have to go in there and investigate, and that would be her only opportunity to escape.
Her muscles clenched, her entire being fraught with fear and braced to run. How many bullets did he have left? Was he carrying extra magazines?
His shoes pivoted, angling toward the bed.
No, no, no. Oh, God. Please, don’t walk this way.
He stalked straight toward her, sending her into a hyperventilating fit of terror.
A tear trickled down Rylee’s cheek and dangled from her chin with maddening endurance. More fell as the gunman closed in, his shoes following an invisible line to her hiding spot.
Lying on her stomach in a puddle of breathless terror, she readjusted her grip on the knife and poised it just out of view.
He paused at the foot of the bed, and her pulse went berserk. He lowered into a squat, and her adrenaline kicked in, muffling all sound. Then she lunged, slashing the knife, fast and deep, across his ankles.
With a guttural cry, she hacked again, less effective this time as his legs whirled, soaking her hand in hot blood.
The gun fired with a suppressed pop. She didn’t slow her attack. Swiping the blade across his shins, she scrambled out from under the bed. The metal frame ripped along her back, but she didn’t feel the pain. Right now, all she felt was the driving urgency to eliminate the threat.
She kept the knife in constant motion, lacerating his legs again and again. Raging fear and frustration constricted her chest. How was he still standing?
A dry click sounded from the pistol. Out of bullets.
His body crashed onto hers, heavy and uncoordinated. She’d maimed him, but he wasn’t giving up.
“Who are you?” She twisted beneath him and buried the blade in his thigh. “How the fuck do you know me?”
He roared in agony and grabbed for the knife. She yanked it away and stabbed him in the stomach.
His hand collided with her face, smashing her jaw with a force that sent her flying backward. She didn’t have time to control her landing. The impact with the floor snatched the breath from her lungs, and her head bounced off the corner of the wall, shooting stars across her vision.
She blinked rapidly, panting and disoriented. When her eyes came into focus, he was on his knees, crawling toward her with a hand wrapped around the knife in his gut.
“Why won’t you fucking die?” she screamed and threw herself at him, pounding her fists in his face. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
He fell onto his back, choking and smiling through a gurgle of blood. “The bridge.”
Her heart stopped and restarted. “How do you know about that? What does it have to do with you?”
With a strangled laugh, he grabbed her throat and wrenched her ear against his mouth. “Thur…nnnn…eee.”
She tried to jerk away, but he had a death grip on her neck. He’d lost too much blood to be this strong.
Her hands moved without thought, grabbing the knife, sliding it from his belly, and thrusting it back in. Again. Again. The fist on her throat dropped away as she continued to stab him.
Over and over, she aimed for vital organs—stomach, heart, neck, lungs. She was hitting ribs, struggling
to spear the blade past bones. But he wasn’t moving. Didn’t appear to be breathing.
With a jolt, she broke out of her fugue and scooted away, taking the knife and his gun with her.
Numbness spread over her as she sat in the dark, gulping, unmoving in a crippled state of shock and horror.
She needed to do something. Close the door. Wash her hands. Turn off the shower. Check his pulse.
No. Fuck, no. She didn’t want to touch him.
Blood soaked his clothes, the floor, her fingers, the knife. So much of it. Everywhere. He couldn’t be alive. No way.
Still, she didn’t twitch a muscle, too terrified a sound might resurrect him.
He’d come here to kill her. If she hadn’t checked the window, he would’ve succeeded.
Who in the hell would go through the trouble of killing her? Why? He’d mentioned the bridge, but it didn’t make sense. Was someone offended that she contemplated suicide ten years ago?
Mason didn’t know about that. No one knew about it.
Except Tommy.
No. It wasn’t possible. Tommy wouldn’t have sent this man. If he wanted her dead, he would’ve done it himself.
Minutes passed, and the flow of her adrenaline slowed, bringing awareness to her body, to the pain in her face and back and the uncontrollable shaking in her limbs.
She wiped the knife on her pants, cleaning off the blood. More covered her hands. She needed to get moving.
The sound of an approaching car pierced through her daze. Headlights illuminated the open doorway. Doors slammed. Footsteps advanced.
Her stomach tightened, and she whimpered.
More hitmen? A backup team for the man she’d just killed? Goddammit, she couldn’t fight off another attack.
Scooting backward in the dark, she slid between the mattress and wall, set the knife under the bed, and aimed the gun with both hands. It was out of bullets, but they wouldn’t know that.
Hidden by the bed, she ducked down low, tucking into a ball, and tried to control the torrent of her breaths.
The tread of heavy boots crossed the threshold. Multiple intruders.
Oh, God, I’m dead. I’m dead. So fucking dead.
