Page 35 of Ricochet

“Southfield, actually.”

Cox stepped past the two men to just inside the room that bustled with investigators.

“Chief,” Burke said, following behind him. “Might wanna nab a barf bag on your way in. This shit’s just … goddamn. The killer sure as fuck has something against pedophiles.”

CHAPTER 15

Aubree

I squeezed the bobbypin I’d fished from my day-old updo, and lodged it into the keyhole, praying for purchase with the turn.

Growing up poor in Detroit meant learning shit the suburbanites never had to think about, with their fancy security systems and fast-acting police. My father, the survivalist hunter that he was, taught me a number of cool tricks like that, in case I ended up in some whack-job’s basement. Bet he never dreamed I’d actually put that skill to work, or that I’d somehow manage to actually land myself in a psycho’s abandoned mansion.

A click tightened my muscles, and I rose up from my knees to a standing position, slowly twisting the knob. Through the crack in the door, I could see the staircase ahead. To the left, another bedroom.

What an idiot. Who the hell left a house with their captive free to roam?

Although, I’d smelled the cigar smoke from earlier. Maybe I wasn’t alone, after all. I hadn’t heard any movement outside my door, though. Widening the crack, I tiptoed out into the hallway, making light steps against the aged wood that just itched to croak under my weight. At the railing, I paused and listened for movement, searching my surroundings for some form of human life, but it seemed vacant. Artwork adorned the walls of the staircase, my hand smoothing over the banister crafted from well-kempt wood, as I descended the long staircase, toward freedom.

It always seemed in movies that, just when the chick was on the goddamn homestretch, leather face would come flying out with his chainsaw—so I took my time going down the stairs, testing out each step before committing my full weight.

I must’ve been halfway to the front door, when the first growl climbed my spine, raising hairs on the back of my neck.

My body froze. Paralyzed. I rotated toward the top of the stairs, where the most enormous, muscular beast I’d ever seen stood, baring its teeth.

Oh, my fucking God.

Swallowing a gulp, I licked my suddenly parched lips and carefully skated my attention toward the front door. I was about equidistance to freedom, as the dog was to me. If the front door happened to be locked, the seconds could cost me.

To my left, I noticed another opened door, a half bathroom, where a toilet and sink took up most of the room. If I didn’t make it beyond the front entrance, that’d be my escape route.

I glanced back toward the dog and swallowed a gasp. The bastard stood two steps closer than I was to the door, and I hadn’t even heard him move.

“Okay, Aubree,” I whispered to myself. “On the count of three. One.” I stepped down and the dog’s growl intensified. “Hey … hey … boy.” Hell, if I knew anything about dogs. I happened to think Michael would’ve flayed any animal we’d have owned. “Two.”

The dog took another step, forcing me down one more. His lip curled up over teeth that looked more like tusks. I scanned my limited knowledge bank on dogs, trying to figure out what the hell kind of dog possessed tusks. A pitbull? He had to be a pitbull, maybe? I’d heard the breed were all muscle, and the dog in front of me could’ve won Mister Universe, hands down.

“Three.” Spinning on the ball of my foot, I darted down the remaining half dozen stairs and grabbed hold of the knob on the front door.

Locked. Goddamn it! No time to piss and moan about that.

Barks and growls trailed my steps, as I high tailed it toward the bathroom, whirling around in time to slam the door on the dog’s agape teeth.

A battle of strength ensued. I pressed into the door, against what felt like over one hundred pounds of muscle on the other side. The last meal I’d eaten rose from the pit of my stomach at the thought of being torn apart by a vicious beast that clearly hadn’t eaten as recently as I had, judging by the way he snarled and tore away at the door.

Oh, what fun that’d be for my captor. He’d probably promised the bastard a T-bone if he happened to make me shit myself first.

Out of nowhere, the dog fell into a spasm of insanity, barking, shoving through the door.

I jumped to the left, in a pathetic attempt to get past the hulking dog leaping toward me, and exhaled the breath from my lungs as the floor smashed into my spine.

Those tusks closed in on me, and a stabbing pinch brought my hands to my throat. I dug my nails into its muzzle in an effort to dislodge the dog’s teeth from my wind pipe. Futile. He wouldn’t budge, and I screamed past the hoarseness in my throat, to which the dog responded by growling and jerking slightly. I flinched at the sting of my flesh, waiting for his teeth to sink in and rip out my esophagus, so he could wriggle it around like a prize—like that scene in Predator when the alien thing tore the spine from his victims.

It never came, though.

The dog never bit any harder than enough to keep me still, in spite of the incredible strength I could sense in his jaws as my artery pulsed against his teeth, pumping in the same tempo as my panicked breaths.

I wanted to cry, but didn’t know the psychology of dogs enough to determine if he’d consider that a trait of weak prey and finish me off right there on the floor. Had he been trained for such shit?