The knife!
In our struggle, one of the cameras had been knocked over, too, its red recording light still blinking frantically.
“Goddammit,” Mathew snapped, pressing his finger to his split lip and drawing it back to reveal blood. “You’re a pain in the ass—you know that?”
I rolled my body over the knife before he could see it, the blade’s handle digging into my back as Mathew stood up to fix one of the cameras.
Come on, come on.
As Mathew spat out a stream of curses, picking up the tripod and adjusting the lighting that had been disrupted in our struggle, I rolled onto my side and began sawing at my bindings. Fast. Furious.
Snap.
I heard the slight pop at the precise moment my wrists freed themselves, circulation rushing back into my hands like fire.
“Now.” Mathew stalked closer to me, his mask slightly askew. “Time for the finale.”
I rolled onto my side and jumped to my feet, holding the knife out in front of me with trembling hands. “Stay back!”
He froze. Those dark eyes, the only thing visible beneath that mask, narrowed with fury.
My lips quirked up in the first genuine smile I’d felt in hours. “Oops. You dropped your knife, MATHEW.”
His chest heaved.
“Mathew Ashford,” I announced to the cameras, my voice stronger now. “He’s my ex-boyfriend and evidently an obsessed stalker.”
“You’re a lying little bitch.”
Mathew lunged for me. I tried to stab him in the gut, but he was faster, grabbing my wrist and twisting it behind my back, spinning me around so my back was pressed against his chest. My arm burned where he’d wrenched it, the knife trapped between our bodies.
“That was a very stupid move, Dakota.” His breath was hot against my neck.
With my one free hand, I reached up behind me and grabbed the edge of his ski mask.
And ripped it off.
Exposing Mathew’s face for all the world to see.
63
AXEL
There it is.
My eyes burned with relief at the sight of Dakota’s apartment building. In the distance, I could hear police sirens wailing through the night. They were close. But not close enough.
Not yet.
I screeched up onto the sidewalk in front of the building and dropped the bike right there. Didn’t even bother turning it off. The engine continued its angry rumble as I sprinted toward the entrance.
Slamming the front door open so hard that it bounced off the wall behind it, I made my way to the stairwell, taking steps three at a time. My dress shoes slipped on the worn concrete, but I caught myself on the railing and kept climbing.
Please, Dakota. Please be okay.
The familiar smell of the building hit me: old carpet, cooking oil, the faint mustiness of too many people living too close together. Smells that might’ve meant home had I been visiting her on another occasion. Now they just meant desperation.
I glanced down at my phone screen during the rush up the stairs, and my blood turned to ice.
