Instead of hitting her, he’d taken Bryson’s pistol out of his holster, then shoved his hand in her pocket and yanked out her gun too, all before she could even blink. How had he known she had the gun when even she, in her moment of need, had forgotten it?
He’d been just inches from her but after taking the guns, he’d walked away. She watched helplessly, uselessly still as a statue, as the man—oh God,that voice—crossed the family room to the woman cowering in the corner. What was her name? Broderick. Mrs. Broderick. A trap. She’d led Bryson and Teagan into a trap. Why? Why would she do that?
The woman’s lips moved. She was looking up at the man, hovering over her with the bloody baseball bat in his right hand. She was saying something, pleading? The words were lost in Teagan’s fractured mind, unable to penetrate the sound of herown heartbeat rushing in her ears.Thump. Thump. Thump.Her heart pounded against her rib cage, white noise that masked everything around her. The tableau played out like a silent movie before her, a nightmare. Because surely none of this was real. It couldn’t be.
Not again. Not again. She couldn’t survive this again.
The man lifted the bat.
No.Teagan tried to yell, to get her legs to move. She had to help the lady. But her throat was so tight she couldn’t make a sound. Her legs were shaking so hard she couldn’t take a step.
He brought the bat down in a deadly arc.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Oh dear God, please, no!The bat. The woman. Bile rose in Teagan’s throat. A low-keening moan filled her ears, and the man jerked around to look at her. She realized that she was the one making that awful sound.
The room around her darkened, like a tunnel, narrowing down to one point where all she could see was the man across the room, watching her. Everything centered on what she’d never seen until this very moment. His face. She’d known that voice, the devil’s voice. To this day, it haunted her dreams. But that face. How could such evil hide behind such an average, kind-looking face?
There was nothing remarkable about it. He was white, clean-shaven, his light brown hair streaked with blond that had no doubt cost a fortune at some expensive salon. Which meant this man had money, a job, likely a home, a car. A family? He was just like anyone else she’d pass on the street.
Except that he wasn’t.
The eyes. The eyes gave him away. They were dark, almost black, completely devoid of warmth. An abyss of emptiness, a deep well of evil with no soul to warm them. They were the eyes of the monster who’d hurt her two years ago. The same monsterwho’d just brutally killed Mrs. Broderick. And the wonderful man lying at Teagan’s feet.
She couldn’t look down. Couldn’t stomach seeing the damage the bat must have done. She didn’t want that image burned into her retinas. Bryson. Smart, gorgeous, sweet Bryson Anton, who wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her.
Forgive me, Bryson.
Evil stared back at her from twenty feet away. Blood dripped from the bat in his hand. She shuddered as a wave of nausea gripped her.
He smiled, as if pleased at her distress. Then he started toward her, still holding that awful bat. Slowly. Like a lion stalking the weakest member of the herd, separating it out, readying for the kill.
Her mind screamed at her.Move. Run. Do something.
But she couldn’t. Why not? She’d run before. Two years ago, when her attacker injected drugs to put her to sleep, but missed the vein, she’d taken advantage of his mistake. She’d pretended to be asleep. And then, after hearing the sound of his car driving away, she’d forced one foot in front of the other. She’d gotten away.
There were neighbors close by. Some of them had to be home. Most of them had to be home. The workday was over for the nine-to-fivers. All she had to do was turn around and...no.
She couldn’t leave Bryson.
She didn’t deserve to survive yet again when he lay at her feet in his own blood. It was her fault. This, then, would be her penance. Face the monster. Pay the price for bringing Bryson here, for destroying a wonderful man.
Shoes echoed against the floor. Hardwood. Like her parents’ house. He was coming closer. Relentlessly. Slowly. Savoring her fear.
She whimpered, and hated herself for it. She was about to die. She wanted to face him with dignity in her last moments. But the wounds of the past were too much to overcome. Her body wasn’t her own anymore to command. She couldn’t stop shaking. Maybe she was already dead.
Evil stopped three feet away.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, to memorize every line, every bump, every angle of his ridiculously ordinary face, refusing to look away as fate raised the bat once more. If she couldn’t run, at least she could stand here and pretend courage she didn’t possess. There would be no defensive wounds for her. But as she stared at him, a strange sense of déjà vu swept through her. She’d seen him before. Not at the shack. He’d always concealed his identity back then. So she had to have seen him somewhere else. But where? Who was he?
He raised the bat higher, watching her, as if waiting to see what she would do. As she remained motionless, his smile faded. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of cowering. She was ruining his fun.
Hooray for her. Finally she’d beaten him. If only in a very small way. This time it was her turn to smile.
Hate glittered in his eyes as he slowly lowered the bat. He tossed it onto a nearby chair and reached behind him. Metal glittered in the overhead lights. A gun? No. Silver circles. A short chain connecting them. Handcuffs. He’d bound her last time, tied her with strips of cloth. But never handcuffs. She’d cut through the strips with her teeth after the drug had failed to knock her unconscious. Perhaps he’d changed his routine since then. He’d learned from his mistakes.
He moved with a swiftness that was terrifying. Too late, she tried to twist away. But the sound of one of the cuffs ratcheting onto her left wrist echoed in the foyer. He yanked her wrist downtoward the floor. She fell to her knees, sliding in the sticky wet blood. Bryson’s blood.
