CLARA
The zip ties around my wrists bite into my skin, leaving angry red marks. Dean never took me seriously, from my job to our future together to simply me as a person. And he certainly never realized that when Emily and I took a self-defense course together, it meant we learned how to get out of situations like this.
Not that I ever thought I'd have to do this in real life; I've only done it in class under the guidance of an instructor and with a bunch of women cheering me on.
First, the anchor. The radiator itself is old cast iron, bolted to the floor of this decaying Brooklyn building that might have been a bed-and-breakfast or hotel at some point in the distant past. But the pipe I'm tied to is thin, brittle, and rust-eaten. It runs vertically behind the actual unit, barely supporting the valve's weight, let alone the frantic pulling of a pregnant woman running on sheer adrenaline.
I ignore the throbbing in my head and the reminder that I'm not supposed to lift heavy things. But if I don't do this, I will die. No matter what Dean believes, I know Andrey will not let me live.
I need to focus. Focus for the baby. Focus for Dmitri. Focus for myself. I need to save this child I don't know yet but is already a part of my heart. I need to do this for Dmitri, so I can warn him about what Andrey plans to do and explain to him that I did not betray him. I need to do this for myself because I want to live, I want to be a mom.
I shift my weight, a slow, agonizing slide toward the wall that causes the pipe to creak. It's a deep, ominous groan that sounds impossibly loud in the room's silence. I don't know where Dean is, but I hope he's preoccupied and can't hear what I'm doing. I heard him stomping down the stairs, and he hasn't stomped back up.
I continue to pull in short, forceful bursts. My shoulders scream with each jerk, and a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. I stop to rest, rubbing my forehead against my shoulder to get rid of the sweat as I sit there, listening. Still nothing from Dean. Good.
I gather my resolve, take a deep breath, and pull again, this time putting all of my strength, all of my anger, all of my fear behind it. The pipe gives way with a screech—like fingernails across a chalkboard. The valve separates from the main line, showering my hands, face, and hair with decades of powdered rust and cold, stale air.
Next I focus on the zip ties.When I finally get my hands and wrists free, I sit quietly and listen. I can hear voices coming from the floor below, and Dean still hasn't come back upstairs.
The single window in the room is ancient and sash-style. I bash at the rusted lock. It’s covered with dust and dirt, and I can barely see the dark alleyway and rusted fire escape outside. I struggle with the warped, heavy sash, putting all of my weightinto it. I groan as I finally manage to push it up halfway before it slides into the frame with a shuddering rattle. My heart leaps into my throat. God, I hope they didn’t hear it.
For a horrifying moment, I think I'm going to be unable to fit through the opening, but somehow I do. The fire escape is wobbly, but it holds when I put an experimental foot on it. From the platform, I grip the rungs of the ladder, so frozen beneath my hands it hurts, and start down. Each step requires a deep breath and a prayer that it doesn't give way or pull away from the old brick wall. Each rung is icy, and I negotiate it carefully, my heart hammering in my chest.
To distract myself, I count, each step a little bit closer to the ground and my freedom. I just have to keep moving.
A noise above makes me jerk my head up. Dean is leaning half outside the window, glaring down at me. My heart gives a great thump and speeds up like a runaway freight train.
“Clara! Stop! Don't you dare fuckingtry to run!” His voice is raw, desperate, and angry, shattering the snowy quiet of the alley and echoing off the brick around us.
I don't stop. I go faster, as fast as I possibly can, reaching the bottom landing, where I leap onto the drop ladder, landing with a deafening crash on the asphalt. I don't wait to catch my breath. I turn and run.
Snow crunches under my shoes and coats my eyelashes, making it difficult to see. I run blindly, fueled by pure terror and the sound of Dean's rage-filled shouts behind me, followed by the sound of the emergency door being violently kicked open.
My lungs are burning as I burst out of the alley onto a dimly lit street. I grip my stomach, as though that will somehow keep the baby safe, making running awkward.
I take a sharp turn onto a broader, emptier avenue, the sound of Dean's heavy footsteps closing the distance between us. I nearly slip and fall and have to reach out to the wall as I round the corner. Dean's faster than I am, unhindered by fear, fatigue, or pregnancy.
He's going to catch me. I can't let him catch me.
The words echo in my head over and over again as a terrifying mantra.
Suddenly, a figure steps out of the shadows, and I have to grab for the wall again before I pitch forward and slip on the slick ground. For a beat, I wonder how the hell Dean got in front of me, and then I realize it's not Dean—it's worse.
Andrey.
He's dressed in a meticulously tailored suit and dark wool overcoat. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, his expression one of detached annoyance.
I try to turn and run the other way. But before I can take another step, his hand shoots out lightning-fast and grabs my arm. His grip is iron, instantly bruising, and he yanks me back. He keeps his grip on my arm as he leads me toward the warehouse entrance.
“Running, Ms. Benson? It’s really quite stupid to think you can escape me.” He looks at me with a flat, deadly expression. I was afraid when I was alone with Dean, but now I'm terrified. It’s like just being near this man envelops me in death's darkness.
“Let go of me!” I struggle, kicking and thrashing, but I'm no match for his strength.
“I have business, Ms. Benson, and it requires your attendance.”
When we get to the warehouse, Andrey kicks the door open, then kicks it shut with a crash that echoes in the silent corridor, where Dean stands waiting. He's breathless, gun drawn, but he hesitates when he sees Andrey is holding me.
“What thehell, Andrey? I had her.”
