“You,” he seethes. “You’re the reason…”
He yanks me so hard from the vehicle, I slip and lose my balance, crashing backward. Pain explodes through my pelvis, sharp and hot—but this is where I need to stay—on the ground.
He wants to throw me off that cliff?
I’m not making it easy.
He tugs at my arm with the hand not holding the gun, but I force my weight downward, making myself into a heavy, unwieldy problem he has to solve.
My palms are slick with sweat inside the flex cuffs; mybreath is shaking out of me in broken bursts. Gravel grinds into my knees; cold earth bites through my slacks.
He shoves the gun into his pocket to use both hands on me.
I curl myself tight, cover my stomach, protect my baby girl. Every instinct screams to shield her from him, from the fall, from everything.
He threads his arms under mine, weaving through, and wrapping his hands across my chest. His grip crushes down on my lungs as he heaves hard.
“You stupid fat bitch,” he grunts.
He’s flush with my body—so close, his rancid breath stings my nose.
And close enough for me to fight back.
I thrust my head backward twice as quickly and as hard as I can. My skull slams into bone. Two sharp cracks.
He roars in agony.
Mike staggers backward, clutching his face. Blood spills through his fingers. I stay low, folded tight in case he comes back.
He sways, touches his nose for a millisecond but jerks his hand back fast. I broke it. He’s in pain. His vision is blurred.
Now is my chance to run.
I scramble to my feet, but I only make it five steps before his chilling shout ricochets off the quarry walls.
“Stop or I’ll shoot, you dumbass cunt!”
I freeze. Every muscle locks.
Slowly, I turn.
He’s already found the gun. It’s pointed right at me, steady despite the blood running down his face.
Blood splutters on his lips as he speaks. “Why fight when you know your fate?”
His words are nasal and choked as he eases himself backward until he hits an old tree stump. He collapses onto it, breath sawing, blood dripping through his fingers—but the gun never wavers from my chest.
“The others didn’t fight.”
A chill slices through me.
“Who?” I force out. “Zoe? Mariana?”
“All of them.”
Shock slides through my system. This man is a serial killer. How many lives has he taken?
“Justin told me I fucked it up big this time,” he slurs, the words slipping out crooked, his head still shot from the hit. “Said he tried to clean up my mess but couldn’t.”
