I don’t want my last view of him to be his retreating back. I duck into my closet for clean sheets. A minute later I hear the front door open and shut.
Now I can fall apart, mourn the loss of my parents. It’s better this way. Free of the need to please my father, to hide from my mother, I can finally be whoever I want.
I finish in the bedroom and wander out to the living room. The deadbolt is still in good shape, and it locks fine. I flip it, push in the button lock, and drag over a chair and prop it under the knob for good measure. It won’t do jack to keep someone out, but it might make enough noise to alert me. The pots and pans and plates go back in their places, the broken pieces in the trash, and I move on to Denise’s bedroom. I strip aside her sheets and throw them in the wash with mine, then pick up her clothes and straighten the books and papers strewn across the room.
By the time I’ve run out of things to clean, my body’s stopped throbbing with a need I can’t indulge. I grab a kitchen knife, sharpen it, and slip it under my pillow. Old habits and all that shit.
I stare at the ceiling as the hours pass, hoping I haven’t made a mistake.
Chapter 10
I don’t make it to class the next morning. I drag myself out of bed around eight, go for a run, shower and eat, and pack up my bag for a day spent on campus before I remember Nick stole my car.
I call my insurance company and report it. I figure it’ll take maybe a half an hour, tops, and I might still be able to make my other morning class.
Two hours later, I’m standing in the garage with one of the representatives from the insurance company, attempting to explain how someone could get into an underground locked garage and hotwire a Honda unnoticed. Fortunately, the property manager comes through—the security cameras aren’t actually turned on.
Since I’ve wasted the morning, I might as well finish it off. I call the number for the police officer Denise gave me.
He answers on the third ring. “Officer Gregory.”
“This is Cass Turner. I’m calling about the break-in at my apartment?”
“You’re difficult to get ahold of, Ms. Turner.”
I squirm a little, even though he can’t see me. He tried to call me yesterday. I’d been too busy dealing with my personal version of hell to answer the phone. “I hope you got everything you needed from Denise.”
“She didn’t report anything as missing. I’d like to meet with you as well, take your statement.”
Crap. I glance around the neat and tidy living room. “That’s fine. I’ve been staying out in Woodland Hills with my parents. It’ll take me a little while to get there.” The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease, my brain working overtime to come up with a solution.
The officer agrees to meet me in two hours, and I set about undoing some of what I’d cleaned up the night before. I shut the door to Denise’s room, upend the couch and coffee table, and stand in the doorway to my bedroom, studying the space. Police officers are trained observers, and I have no way of knowing whether this guy is one of the super observant ones who’ll notice every detail, down to the placement of a wayward sock. Finally, I pull the sheets and blankets free of the bed, throw some clothes around, scatter papers on the floor, and dig my laptop out of my bag and put it on my desk.
In the kitchen, I get out a few of the dishes and pans and dig the pieces of broken porcelain out of the trash. It’s less than perfect. It’ll have to do.
I grab my wallet and head out, carefully replacing the yellow tape across the door. A new deadbolt will help both Denise and I feel better, though I doubt we’ll be staying in the building much longer. I’ve seen the way Charlie looks at her. If he hasn’t thought about asking her to move in with him yet, he will be soon.
I hope he does. He makes her happy, and I like the two of them together.
Purchasing the deadbolt takes longer than I thought it would, and I hurry back, digging my phone out when it starts buzzing against my hip. “Hello?”
“Ms. Turner, it’s Officer Gregory. Just wanted to let you know I’m running behind. I should be there in twenty minutes.”
Excellent. More time to mess up my apartment. “That’s fine.”
I take the stairs, the paper bag containing the deadbolt clutched in my hand. I unhook the tape, open the door, and survey my little rental kingdom. Were the cushions from the couch lying on the floor? Or were they jumbled up on the couch?
The door clicks softly, and I freeze. “I thought—”
A rough hand slaps over my mouth, a blade biting into my neck, hot breath on my ear. “Not so tricky to find.” The voice is low and as rough as the hand, dull, without inflection.
Ice slicks over my skin as my brain shuts out the extraneous noise, focuses on the essential information. He’s taller than me and quiet, so he’s got some skill. His arm feels strong, as does his chest. First step is to get away from the blade. He’s already made his first mistake; he didn’t slit my throat immediately. Give him enough time, he’ll make more. Ignoring the steadily growing pressure of the blade on my skin, I swing the hand holding the bag with the deadbolt in an arc toward the side of his head. It’s not heavy enough to do any damage, and I’ll likely miss, but the idea is to distract my assailant enough that he moves the knife.
It connects with something solid, and he grunts, the knife moving a precious few millimeters. I grab his wrist and stomp on his instep, pushing out and twisting forward.
If I maintain my hold, I risk him trapping me again. If I let him go, he’ll just come after me.
Both options suck. I choose the second one, dart to the other side of the room, and immediately realize my mistake. All the sharp implements are behind him. My only defenses are my own hands.
Except one. The knife I slept with under my pillow last night. All I have to do is get into my bedroom somehow.
I’ve taken self-defense classes, but Turner didn’t spend a lot of time on hand to hand combat, instructing me instead to cut my losses and get away. His way of proving he does care, I guess. At any rate, assassins aren’t meant to engage their targets. They just take them out, quick, clean, simple. Interaction leads to too many questions and too many eyes looking in the wrong place.
Blood trickles from the cut on my throat as we stare at each other. He looks remarkably similar to the man I shot the other day. Dark hair, dark eyes, and supremely pissed off.
The flight instinct’s growing stronger with every passing second. Rather than continue our Mexican standoff, I race for my bedroom then yank the knife from under the pillow as he stalks into the room. He blocks the door and smirks. I’m trapped, and he knows it.
I do the first thing that comes to mind—I throw a pillow at him. It hits him square in the face, and I throw another one. Two more pillows later, I’m out of missiles and he’s growling and ready to charge.
He lunges forward as I crouch to scoop up a shoe to throw at him, his blade slicing along my upper arm. Pain blooms and spreads, and I fumble my grip on my knife. My pathetic kitchen knife. He whips his arm back to strike again, hummingbird quick, and I stab upward, my knife lodging in that weird space where leg meets torso.
It won’t come out.
I’m tugging while he stumbles back a step, and I finally free the knife. Blood seeps through his pants, the dark stain spreading across his groin. It looks like he’s pissed himself, and I’ve got the hysterical urge to giggle. If I managed to hit the artery, he’ll bleed out in a minute or less. That’s a mighty big if.
It’s not a chance I can take.
Fingers flexing on the handle of his knife, he feints left, and like an idiot, I fall for it, his blade landing on my hip. The sharp edge slices through my jeans like butter and into my skin, leaving behind a searing line of heat. I jab toward his stomach, tearing the material of his shirt and nicking his side.
He recovers first, caging me against the wall, knife digging into my neck.
But he’s made another mistake.
He left my arms free.
As his knife slices my skin, I ram mine into his gut, pushing him away at the same time, hoping the maneuver will work.
It won’t kill him. Not right away. Stomach wounds bleed slowly, giving the victim a chance to get to safety and seek medical attention. I either need to retrieve my knife again, or disarm him and finish the job.
Exhaustion drags me down, makes me weak, makes me want to walk away. Blood clings to the handle, my fingers slipping a little as I pull it free. His knife sneaks in under my arm, the tip digging into my stomach, but there’s no power behind it. It gives me the time I need to plunge my knife into his neck, hot blood now flowing unabated.
Over. Finally over. He trips backward, slides down the side of the bed, and lands on his ass, tipping to the right in a drunken slouch.
I take off my bloody shirt, press it to the wound on my throat, and make my way to the bathroom. Blood swirls down the drain as I wash my hands, and I dampen my shirt to wipe away the worst of the mess. I hope we have butterfly bandages. The second cut on my neck is bleeding more than I’m comfortable with.
There is a God, and He provided butterfly bandages.
My fingers are cold on my skin, trembling slightly when I try to get the bandages to stick. I cover it with a thin strip of gauze and deal with the rest of my cuts. The one on my arm is by far the worst, blood oozing from the wound. I remove my jeans and deal with the cut on my hip, checking my bullet graze for good measure. The skin’s split in some places, bleeding anew, and I plaster over it with gauze until I have time to deal with it.
I’m running out of time.
I snatch up my pants and fish my phone out of my pocket. Ten minutes have passed since Officer Gregory called. Which means if I’m lucky, I’ve got another ten minutes to get the hell out of here.
I gather up my bloody clothes and dash back to my bedroom, ignoring the flat, unseeing eyes of my attacker. I grab a bag from my closet, toss the clothes inside, and hunt through the mess on my floor for something to wear. I need a scarf, a turtleneck, something to cover the bandage on my neck. A violently pink floral thing catches my eye. Denise tries, she really does, but the girl needs help if she thinks bright pink flowers will look good on me. I slip on a black long -sleeve shirt, grimacing as the fabric snags on the tape holding the gauze in place. I drag on a pair of jeans, then wrap the scarf around my neck, taking precious seconds to adjust it to ensure it covers the bandage.
I ignore my increasing jitters and focus on the next steps. My fingerprints are all over the knife. I wipe off the handle, smearing blood, and stow it in my bag. His is next, and I pry his knife from his hand. I wrap the blade in the shirt I used to wipe off my kitchen knife and stow it in the bag. Another couple of changes of clothes, an extra pair of shoes… I glance around the room, unable to shake the feeling I’m forgetting something. Something tells me I’ll never see this place again.
At the last second, I snap a picture of the dead guy’s face, then shut off my phone and stuff it into my bag. I snag a couple of bobby pins from the bathroom and hurry to the door.
No one’s in the hallway. I don’t bother with the tape this time, pinning my hair into a messy topknot on my way to the stairs, my bag heavy on my shoulder. But the hair pinning is essential—people automatically register hair length, and an easy way to fool them is to put it in a bun.
My legs are wobbly as I reach the bottom of the stairs. I have very little cash in my wallet. Using my debit card to make a withdrawal is out of the question. I need water, sugar, and a place to hide.
The side entrance dumps me into a shady alley, and I walk to the back of the building. There’s a bus stop a few blocks away. I don’t know where the bus goes, but it’ll get me out of here. The distant sound of sirens fills me with panic and quickens my step.
A bus is rolling down the street as I approach the stop. Perfect timing, too, because those sirens are closer. I dip my head, dig out some change, and climb on to the bus, relieved to have a place to sit for a while. A place to figure out where I go from here.
An hour later, I’ve changed buses twice, downed a bottle of orange juice, and I’m no closer to a solution. I can’t drag Denise into this or any of my other friends. My parents are out. A motel will require use of a credit card. I need to get some place where I can tend to my wounds, since I’m pretty sure the one on my arm hasn’t stopped bleeding.
There’s one place left.
It takes another hour, and by the end, I’m worn out and painfully aware of the aches popping out in my body with every passing second. He might not be home. He might not let me in. But this place, this condo no one knows about, is the only refuge I can think of.
My hands are shaking so hard my finger slips off the buzzer several times before I manage to press it in. Sweat rolls down my spine. My head is pounding. And no one answers the buzzer.
I prop my head on the front door, willing my mind to clear, to think. I push the button again.
Nothing. Just seagulls and the distant rush of the ocean.
“Hello?”
The sudden greeting jolts me upright. My hands are fat and clumsy as I fumble with the intercom. “It’s Cass.”
More silence.
There’s a clicking and a metallic buzz as the front door is released, and I walk into the lobby and sway in front of the elevator, poking the button repeatedly in an effort to make it come faster.
It takes its damn sweet time, the doors sliding open with an agonizing slowness, mocking me. The hallway mocks me, too, stretching on forever, the distance between me and Nick’s door never growing shorter.
Each rap of my knuckles on his front door has pain singing up my arm, and I clutch the doorframe so I won’t fall over. The sight of him when he opens the door is the most beautiful thing ever. His brows rise in question, the look on his face one of mild interest.
Please let me in. I’ll beg if I have to. I’m not too proud to do it. I try to smile and fail, searching for the words that will move him out of the way and allow me entry. The truth. I can tell him the truth.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
Chapter 11
I’m going to fall over. My legs can’t hold me up any longer. “Nick? I’m sorry, but I really need to sit down. Can I please come in? Just for a minute?” The edges of my vision are fuzzy with fatigue. I let go of the door and lurch forward, shooting out a hand to grab the frame again. The hollow of my throat is damp, from sweat, from blood, I don’t know.
He narrows his eyes, peering at my neck. “What the fuck—” He pulls the scarf away. “You’re bleeding.”
So that’s blood then. Good to know.
“Jesus, Cass. How long have you been walking around like that?”
“A few hours. I caught a bus. Then another bus. I didn’t know where else to go.” His hold on my arms is all that’s keeping me upright, my duffle bag hanging off my shoulder. I shrug, and it falls, catching on his hand. He drops it and leads me over to the couch, his hand pressing on the wound on my hip. I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the hiss of pain. “Is it bleeding badly?”
He helps me onto the couch. “Lie on your back.” He reaches up and pulls the pins from my hair himself, then peels away the tape and gauze to inspect the wound. “Not too much. Shit job you did here.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“One sec.” He disappears, returning a minute later carrying a red plastic tackle box.
“What the hell is that?”
He opens it and pulls out gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes, a pre-packaged syringe, and a few other things, but I stopped paying attention after the syringe. “What’s the syringe for?”
He holds up a packet containing a needle.
I struggle to sit up, to get away from him. “Oh, no. No no no no no. You are not coming anywhere near me with that.”
He drops the needle into the box and reaches for me. “If the cut on your neck is deep enou
gh, it’ll need stitches. Either I do it, or we go to the emergency room.”
Hospitals have security. Hospitals ask questions. I scoot down, my gaze trained on the ceiling as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves. The gentle touch of his fingers calms me further as he cleans the wound. “Verdict? Stitches or no?” The answer had better be no.
“Don’t think so.” My skin stretches and pulls as he pinches the edges together. “Hold still.”
Heart thudding loud enough he has to hear it, I do what he asks, seconds slipping into minutes while he works. “There’s more,” I say when he’s smoothed gauze over my throat.
One side of his mouth tips up. “Of course there is.” He sits back on his heels. “You need help?”
I might be able to handle the ones on my legs, but I doubt I did a good job on my arm. It’s too high up for me to see well. “One on my stomach, one near my shoulder. There’s another on my hip, and the bullet graze reopened.”
A line appears between his brows before he shuts his eyes and mutters something unintelligible. When they open, they’re dark with worry and anger. “How close to your shoulder?”
I arch my back and pull up my shirt, wriggling slightly to get it over my head, careful to avoid his eyes. I roll onto my side so the wound is visible. He swears softly and pulls off the bandage. “Still bleeding.” He goes through the routine of cleaning the wound and inspecting it. “Cass?”
I’m not going to like this. “What?”
“Needs stitches.”
“No.”
“It’s too deep—”
“No. Use the butterfly bandages.”
“The one on your throat—”
“Didn’t need them. Neither does this one.”
He strips off the gloves and nudges me onto my back. “The one on your throat isn’t as deep but probably should be looked at by a medical professional anyway. The cuts on your arm and hip will require stitches. You don’t get them, they won’t heal right, and you run a higher risk of infection.” His eyes never leave mine. “Do you trust me?”
Game of Shadows Page 8
