Savior (First to Fight Book 4)

by Nicole Blanchard

  What’s more terrifying than the bat, is his rapt focus. He hasn't said anything, not one word since he attacked me on the porch. Like I’m not human. Like I’m just a thing he’s playing with. Less than a person. Not worthy of his words.

  Anger floods over me in a hot rush and I’m surprised it doesn’t simply steam right out of my ears. As he twists his torso to reach for a section of rope sticking out of his back pocket, I snag the handle of the bat and swing. There’s no time to aim, no time to second guess myself.

  The bat arcs through the air and connects with his shoulder. It’s not enough to seriously injure him, but it’s enough to distract him, if only momentarily. He shouts in pain and jerks backward. I take advantage of it and surge forward, hoping the combination of the hit and the shift in balance are on my side. His hand comes up to grapple for something to counter his weight and his finger snags in my hair. Whole chunks come away with his fingers as he falls backward and tumbles to the ground.

  It takes every ounce of strength that I have to open my eyes. I can barely see through the tears and the sting of mascara, but I manage to clamber to my feet. I scoot by the bed as fast as my feet can carry me and inch around the periphery of the room. The man, who I now notice is dressed in black as the dim streetlight filters through the windows, gets back up to his feet. I don’t look down because I can't. I won't. I block that out, too.

  My sobs have subsided, and I look around wildly for something, anything, I can use to fucking hurt this guy with so I can escape. I grab the first heavy-looking thing next to me—a metal bookend. As he moves to open the door, I raise the bookend in an arc above me, my wrist screaming in pain. By the force of sheer will, I manage to bring it down as fast and as hard as I possibly can across his head. The resulting, wet-sounding thump makes me cringe, but I force myself not to give in to the fear and panic.

  He crumples in front of me, landing heavily against the wall with a loud thump.

  By now my wrist is throbbing fiercely, but I gather my strength and use both hands to throw the bookend at the assailant who is scrambling to his feet and picking up the discarded bat as he advances. The bookend bounces off his back, and he momentarily loses his footing, bur rights himself before I have a chance to move. The man turns and body checks me. I fall back, back, back and land on the floor in a pool of blood, knocking my head against the corner of Paige’s dresser. Disoriented, I scramble back to my hands and knees, the position made awkward by my injured wrist.

  Head throbbing and thoughts muddled, it takes precious seconds for me to regain my footing. In that time, he raises the bat above his head and swings, the bat whistling through the air. I duck on instinct and feel the air ruffle my hair. Unable to connect the hit, he spins and I rush across the room to shove him the rest of the way out of the open door. He lurches to his feet just as I fling the bedroom door shut. He throws his weight against the door once, and I grunt. As he reaches a hand through the door I take the opportunity to slam it shut, closing it on his fingers, once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The sound of someone’s pain has never been so satisfying.

  He shouts and pulls the hand back. I throw the door closed and use sweaty, bloody fingers to flip the lock. I fumble and flounder for my phone and manage to pull it from my pocket. It takes me precious moments, and I’m crying in frustration and fear by the time I’m able to activate the touch screen and dial 9-1-1.

  An operator answers as the man in the hallway throws himself once again against the door. It groans in response but holds. I frantically yell my location at the operator as I awkwardly block the door with my own weight, my mind dissolving into shock. I almost drop the phone, but manage to hold onto it with my uninjured hand.

  “9-1-1 what is your emergency?”

  “She’s dead!” I shout. “He killed her!”

  “Ma’am, are you saying there was homicide?”

  “He’s still here. He’s trying to kill me, too.”

  “We’re going to send help. Can you tell me your address?”

  I choke on my frantic gulps of air and scream when the door jerks behind me. The ringing in my ears drowns own my voice as I relay my address and phone number in case they need to call me back.

  “You’re doing just fine. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Piper. My name is Piper. Just please help us.”

  “They’re on their way. Can you tell me if you’re hurt, Piper?”

  “My hand—I think he broke it. But Paige, my sister. I think,” my voice breaks with a sob, but I force myself to continue, “I think she’s dead.”

  “Is the person who attacked you still there?”

  Another shove comes at the door and a scream tears from my lips. “Yes,” I say to the operator. “I locked him out of the room, but he’s here. He’s trying to get in.” Tears pour down my cheeks. “Please.” I don’t know if I’m talking to her, to him, or to God Himself, but I say the word so many times it becomes one long chant.

  “We’ve got officers and paramedics en route. Stay inside the room until they call for you.”

  “I will,” I tell her.

  Then, I close my eyes because the adrenaline gives way to shock and it’s the only way I blot out the reality.

  There, surrounded by the scent of my sister’s favorite perfume and the blood—her blood—that stains my skin, I finally succumb to mindless panic.

  The sound of my name being called in a familiar voice shocks me out of the stupor. “Piper!”

  I twist around, realizing I slumped on the floor against the door at some point. It’s still dark out and I have no idea how much time has passed. It can’t be long because the police haven’t arrived. Still clutching the phone in my hand, I get back to my feet, but I’m too scared to open the door and check to see who is outside.

  “Piper!” They yell again, this time the voice sounds closer, followed by the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass. I press my ear to the bedroom door and hear the thunder of footsteps coming down the hall. “Piper where are you?”

  Recognizing the voice, my hand reaches for the doorknob. “Gavin?”

  “Thank God,” he says through the door, his voice muffled. “I heard you screaming. Open the door, baby. Are you okay?”

  I almost do it. I almost open the door, then I remember the man and my hand stops mid-air. “What are you doing here, Gavin?”

  “What the hell, Piper? Just let me in!”

  Caught between the need for someone familiar, someone safe, and the devastation of what I’ve been through, I freeze. Gavin bangs on the door and I jump backward.

  “Piper? Piper, c’mon, baby. Open the door.” His voice is achingly familiar and causes sobs to rise in my throat.

  “No,” I think I say, but I’m not sure if the words actually make it through my lips.

  He keeps banging on the door until other voices join him, then another knock comes, but this time it’s a woman on the other side. I glance out the window and find the front yard full of flashing lights.

  With tentative movements, I open the door and peer around the side.

  The officer on the other side lowers her weapon. “You’re safe now, Piper. Help is here.”

  * * *

  A hand wraps around my wrist and I come up screaming, fists balled and swinging.

  “Ms. Davenport! Ms. Davenport,” says a frantic, shrill voice. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.

  I open my eyes and blink, chest heaving from the sudden rush of adrenaline. A wary, unfamiliar face peers down at me. “I just need to check your vitals,” she says, and takes a measured step toward the bed. “Is that okay?”

  Nodding makes my head throb and I press a hand to it, then pull it away when I find a thick bandage. What the—

  Then it hits me. All of it.

  Paige.

  My fingers wrap around the metal arms of the hospital bed when the force of it threatens to simply wash me away. The nurse puts a hand on my arm and I jerk away again, lost in the throes
of the memories. A harsh sound is coming from somewhere and it takes me a minute to realize it’s my desperate, broken sobs.

  The nurse rushes out of the room and comes back. I cover my eyes and sink into the bed as she pushes God-only-knows-what into the I.V. snaking into my arm. Whatever it is, I hope it’ll take the pain away. He didn’t kill me, but I almost wish he did. I wish he’d taken me instead.

  Living without Paige is simply incomprehensible. I reject the very thought of it.

  Whatever the nurse gives me swallows me slowly, taking me under into the blessedly empty depths where there’s no such thing as pain at all. I give into it gleefully.

  A few hours later, after a visit from the doctor and a bevy of nurses, my parents appear. I can hardly bear to look at them. They remind me too much of Paige. My mother flutters about the hospital room arranging all the flowers already filling every surface while my father stomps around glaring at everyone. They’re trying to keep it together, trying to be strong for me, but I can read the strain between them. I can see how they’re struggling with the fact that they just lost a child, but at least they still have the other.

  I ignore them both and feign sleep. They’ve stopped giving me any of the good drugs because the police are supposed to come by for an interview so I can’t slip off into unconsciousness and hide away from it all anymore. I can’t even move without being reminded of my own anguish.

  A broken wrist, various lacerations, a concussion, and shock are my new bedfellows. And I am grateful. The combination blurs most of what happened after I locked myself in Paige’s room. I have only a few recollections of being wheeled from the apartment to an ambulance. Flashing red and blue lights. A huddle of curious onlookers scenting blood. Flickers of the ride to the hospital. Feeling grateful I didn’t have to see them take Paige away. The blood smeared on our floors is the only image that is crystal clear.

  The finality.

  “Piper,” my mother says from the doorway, her voice watery with tears. “The officers need you to go over one more time what happened.”

  I nod, though I kept my gaze on the lone window of my hospital room as I sit up.

  Detective Manning, who I notice is dressed in a worn suit when he’d come to the scene to check on me the night before, hadn’t changed in the hours since. It is hopelessly wrinkled by now, a fact that I appreciate. Paige deserves that kind of dedication, which is why I don’t protest. He was tireless with Carly’s case and kind to us. He’s the only one I feel understands what I’m going through. The moment his eyes settle on me, I want to burst into tears and throw my arms around his neck.

  As he draws into the room, I scoot over on the bed and offer him a place beside me, comforted by his closeness. He obliges and perches on the bedside, a kind of familiarity borne from tragedy. He takes my hand for a second, then pats it and sets it down on the bed. He pulls out a legal pad about a third of the size of the one he used when he interviewed us the first time, which almost makes me smile. When he speaks, his voice is soft and full of compassionate understanding. “Start wherever you can, with as much detail as you can, Piper. Whatever you can remember will help us figure out just what happened. Take your time.”

  “It was late, probably past midnight, although I don’t remember the exact time. I’d been drinking. I was coming back from a bar. She’d been there with me about an hour before. Around eleven o’clock. I’d seen my ex-boyfriend, and she was talking me out of rekindling the relationship.”

  “His name?” he asks.

  “Gavin Lance,” I reply absently.

  Detective Manning shuffles through his notes. “So you were at the bar together around eleven o’clock and you went home about an hour later. How did you get home?”

  “Yes.” It’s just like recalling it from a dream. “I didn’t drive and wanted to walk, thought the air would help clear my head. When I got home, I thought I heard something in the alley beside the house.” I look up at him and blink back tears. “I was scared. I thought it could have been the same person who attacked Carly, which is stupid, right? Anyway, I went up the steps and started to unlock the door when he—he came up behind me and put his hand over my mouth. He told me not to scream.”

  “Did you get a look at him? Recognize anything?”

  I shake my head. “No. He pushed me inside before I knew what was happening.”

  Manning nods and gives me an encouraging smile, which bolsters me for the next part.

  “He pushed me into P-Paige’s room,” I manage before my voice breaks.

  My mother chokes on a sob somewhere across the room, and I squeeze my eyes closed to rein in my wildly fraying emotions.

  “It was dark. There was a little light coming in, but I couldn’t see much. Then he pushed me down on the bed and picked up Paige’s bat she kept from high school.”

  “Could you tell how tall he was? Short?” Manning prompts.

  I force myself to remember the feeling, his arms around me and the scrape of his beard on my neck. His chest against my back. A shudder of revulsion rolls down my spine.

  “Taller,” I croak out. “I’m five eight so he would be about six feet tall, I think. Muscular. Strong enough to lift me easily. Pin me down.”

  “Did he say anything? Did you recognize his voice?”

  “He told me not to scream, but no, I didn’t get a good look at him. It was too dark and everything went so fast. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re doing just fine. Do you think you would be able to recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

  I press my lips together and shake my head.

  “That’s okay. Was there anything else about the attack that you can remember?”

  I forced myself to remember, to track through the nightmare for any detail that could help. “He had facial hair of some kind. And during the struggle I knocked him out with a bookend. He was only out for a few seconds, though. I also managed to slam his fingers in the door. So he’d definitely be injured today, and I think he had dark hair. His cologne was pine-scented, I think, but I can’t tell you the brand. It wasn’t familiar”

  “Can you tell me more about your boyfriend, Gavin Lance?” Manning asks.

  My brows furrow. “Ex. We broke up around the time Carly was . . . around the time Carly was found.”

  “You said you saw him at the club? Did you argue?”

  “We talked, like I said. He wanted to get back together, but I blew him off.”

  “Was he upset?”

  I glance between him and my parents and sit up a little straighter. “What’s going on?”

  “Honey, just answer the question,” my mom says.

  “He seemed a little angry when I wouldn’t stay and talk with him, but he couldn’t,” I brush a hand through my hair, “he couldn’t have done anything like this.”

  “We’re just covering all bases,” Manning reassures me. “Did you change your mind? Make plans to meet at your house later?”

  I shake my head. “No, not at all.”

  “Do you know what he was doing at your house last night?”

  My hand goes to my forehead to rub at the dull ache growing just behind my eyes. “No, I—I have no idea. He probably came by to try and make up with me.” My voice is small and choked with tears. “He’s not hurt is he?”

  Manning shares a look with my parents.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I demand.

  “You said you injured the man who attacked you?” Manning flips through his little notebook. “Smashed his hand?”

  “Yes,” I say slowly. “What does that have to do with Gavin?”

  “Mr. Lance has a broken hand,” Manning says.

  My mother gasps, my father curses, and I wonder how much more pain I can possibly take.

  Piper

  As the Greyhound bounces and groans its way through the flat of Florida fields, thatches of paradise peek through the expanse of pine and palm trees. A familiar sugar-white beach is first, much to my delight. It is already full to burst
ing with pink tourists and shrieking children. A postcard-perfect picture. I can’t help but sigh at the sight. I’ve missed the ocean.

  Along the front of the beach are tourist attractions, put-put golf, and go carts rentals. Places to rent beach equipment, a couple of diving shops and boating places. Farther down are brightly painted buildings gathered in groups. The whole scene makes me smile, and the muscles in my cheeks protest. I’m so used to wearing a scowl.

  I’ve been coasting on gut impulses and luck for the past six months, and so far they haven’t done me wrong. For a while after the night Paige was murdered I’d given in to the pressure to pursue therapy. Hours and hours of therapy at my mother’s request. It may have given me some tools to deal with the night terrors and depression, but it did nothing to help with the fear or the overwhelming guilt or the constant need to look over my shoulder.

  Finally, when I realized that the anxiety was going to suck what little there was left of me, I decided to leave. I just hopped on the first bus out of Miami—the place I’d begun to consider home—and lit out to see anything and everything.

  I’d stuck to Northern cities, Boston, Chicago, a brief stint in New York, hoping to lose myself in the anonymity of the crowd. For a while, it worked and the memories were crushed by the day-to-day obligations. Being on the move meant having to find a new job to support myself in each city. The old me had been a little too wild. Too reckless. Careless. Working and worrying about paying for rent and food hadn’t been too high on my list of priorities. Now, endless, menial work serves to distract me from the ghosts of my past.

  My phone rings and I find Chloe’s name on the caller I.D. “I’m almost there,” I say without greeting. Chloe is the only person in the world who has any idea of the trauma I’ve been through. A couple years ago, she was taken hostage along with a couple dozen other people on a ferry and strapped with bombs. She was my sole employee at the little travel agency I’d opened in Jacksonville and my closest friend. When I started to feel the fingers of the past reaching out to drag me back, I decided to put Jacksonville in my rearview and passed the agency over to her very capable hands.