But the worst part is she never calls. She rarely texts. She doesn’t… try. He gave her an ultimatum on me and it’s like she one-upped it on my entire existence.
I’m so lost in thoughts of her that I don’t hear anyone behind me until a hand clamps over my mouth halfway through the shaded alley, and when I try to scream, the sound can’t escape.
A hard body at my spine.
Another arm around my waist.
I let my bag drop, then dig my nails into the lowest arm, shifting all my weight to attempt to break their hold.
I feel their muscles flex, but they don’t move.
I’m not going to fucking die here.
My pulse thrashes inside my ears but I don’t let the panic overcome me. Cynthia and I took a basic self-defense course our freshman year. I only remember a little, but maybe a little is all it’ll take to save me.
I take a breath, crisp fall air filling my lungs as I let myself go momentarily limp. Then I shove down again on their arm banded around me, letting my feet lift from the ground as hard as I’m pressing. Their arm tightens, trembles, then miraculously, I break free.
I don’t bother looking at my attacker:Put distance between you.Drilled into us in self-defense. You don’t want to fight if you don’t have to.
Immediately—leaving my bag—I take off into a sprint, boots churning over the frosted brick walkway decorated with salt.
My pulse thrashes inside my ears and I curse myself for not warning Cynthia. For not giving her a head’s up that the killer isn’t just coming for men. They’re coming for everyone.
I should’ve stayed in Faust’s bed. If I had, they wouldn’t have found me here and they wouldn’t go to my apartment next, thinking Cynthia will be alone and thus, more vulnerable.
But Tylone will be there, right?
He fucking has to be.
Nolan is going to kill me if this person doesn’t.
And they are.
Because this is the killer, isn’t it?
Who else could it be?
My lungs expand as I run, but I hear them on my heels. Not their breath, no. Just their footsteps.
That means they’re strong. Athletic.
My throat tightens and I churn my arms at my sides, almost free of the alleyway. Maybe I can scream then. I should see someone else; a professor, a jogger, someone forced to take their dog for a walk in this cold.
But when the buildings drop away, someone hauls me backward, their fist in my coat which is zipped tight around my body, and I’m pulled back, flush against a hard chest as my mouth is covered, sealed, once more.
A voice hits my ear before I can try and escape again.
“Did you fuck him?”
My blood runs cold and I freeze, jerking my chin up and staring straight ahead at that parking lot I might not make it to.
I don’t fight anymore.
I don’t try to twist my head from his grip.
If this is the killer, I can’t get myself out of this. Not with physical force.
His hand loosens slightly on my mouth.
