She took out her phone, and with her cell in one hand and the USB in the other, she walked toward the door, pressing Jesse’s number on the way.
“Clara, hey. Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure? Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I found something but I think someone’s here.”
“There’s someone in yourhouse?” Jesse’s voice was harder and louder now, and movement sounded over the line.
She stepped into the hall. “I’m—”
An arm suddenly wrapped around her neck from behind and pushed her into her bedroom doorframe.
She gasped, both the USB and phone dropping from her hands. She took three quick steps back, turning with each step and hitting the person behind her against the wall. The attackergrunted, and she quickly threw an elbow to their gut, nailing them in the midsection.
When their grip on her loosened, she tried to run but a body hit her full force from behind, sending them both to the floor. Her head hit the floorboard, her gaze going blurry.
An arm wrapped around her neck once again, this time pulling so tight that the air cut off in her throat.
For a second, panic rendered her completely useless. Then her fight instinct kicked in, and she turned her head toward the person’s elbow to try to create space to breathe before grabbing at the arm around her throat. When that wasn’t enough, she bucked her hips up and rolled so that she was on top, her back pressed to their front. She lifted her leg and brought her foot down hard on their shin.
They cried out, and she pushed up and ran. She wanted to run outside, but her keys were in the kitchen and the attacker might force her into their car. So instead, she ran into her bedroom, then the bathroom, and locked the door.
Holden guidedthe smooth edge of the cabinet door through the table saw, the blade whirling as it sliced through the wood.
Cool air blew in from the open workshop doors, and sawdust and fresh-cut pine scented the air. He’d been working out here for hours. Doors lay on the workbench, their edges rough because he’d yet to sand them.
He’d barely slept over the last week. Clara was all he could think about. The tears in her eyes when she’d told him to leave. The pain in her voice.
He’d messed up. Fuck, he’d messed up so badly that he didn’t know how to fix it. She wasn’t answering his calls or responding to his texts. Was what he’d done completely unfixable?
His lungs tightened at the idea that it was. That he might never get Clara back.
He paused and checked his phone. He’d texted her not long ago, but still no response.
Being apart from her was killing him, and not just because he needed to fix things. She’d been sick. He needed to make sure she was okay, and right now the only information he was getting was secondhand through Jesse, Becket, and Pam.
Fuck it. He was going to go see her.
He turned everything off, took a quick shower, and climbed into his truck.
On the way, he went over so many scenarios in his head. Things he wanted to say. Apologies he needed to make. None of it felt like enough.
Maybe he should have stopped for flowers or an almond croissant or one of those sweet teas she liked.
He pulled over in front of her house.
Too late now.
This was it. This was when hebeggedher to forgive him.
He was just taking off his seat belt when his gaze caught on the front door.
It was ajar.
Thefuck? She wouldn’t have done that, not after Scarlett’s murder.
