But it doesn’tfeelnormal.
Sweat slides down my spine despite the chill racing through me. Hannah’s warm weight in my arms is both comfort and liability—I can’t take risks, can’t charge ahead like the reckless girl I used to be. I have to be smart. Rational.
I back away from the laundry room, fishing my phone from my pocket with trembling fingers.
Call the police. That’s what normal people do.
I pull up the keypad and tap the first digit.
9.
That’s as far as I get.
A shadow explodes from the laundry room.
Hannah’s scream pierces the air as she jolts awake in my arms. I spin instinctively, trying to shield her with my body, but he’s already on us.
The impact slams me backward. My heels scramble for purchase against the hardwood but it’s useless—he’s too strong, too fast. We’re going down.
I hit the couch hard, Hannah’s weight nearly tearing from my grip. My fingers claw at her clothes, her skin, anything to keep her close. “Mommy!” she shrieks, and the sound breaks something inside me.
Before I can pull her back to my chest, the couch lurches. He’s dragging it toward him.
No!
Not her.
Not Hannah!
He’s dressed in all black, face hidden behind a balaclava. Our eyes meet for a split second—cold, emotionless—before he looks away, focused on his task.
The couch tips. We spill to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Hannah is crying, my shoulder screams where it connected with the ground, but I barely feel it. I’m already moving, already grabbing her, hauling her back against my hip.
The furniture crashes away from him instead of toward. A few seconds. That’s all I have.
The phone!
I need my phone. Need to call for help. Need to—
Hannah’s sobs cut through my panic. Her small hands fist in my shirt, her whole body trembling against mine.
Think, Lauren.
Think!
The glass vase on the console table catches my eye. It’s heavy, substantial. My only option.
I lunge for it, dumping the flowers, water sloshing across the floor. The weight immediately strains my wrist but I don’t care. I just need to buy time. Time to get Hannah somewhere safe. Time to call the police.
This can’t be happening. Four years of running, hiding, building a life—and it’s all crashing down in the middle of my living room.
He’s coming at us again.
I don’t think. I swing.
The vase connects with the attacker’s face in an explosion of frosted glass. He roars, stumbling back. Blood seeps through the fabric of his mask.
Hannah screams against my chest.
