tensed to pivot and leap. One … two …
An instant before he reached three, he heard that same hushed voice say, “Here you go,” followed immediately by a sickening sound: Slit.
Daniel had barely registered the noise when a mist of blood pattered on the visible wedge of kitchen tile.
There came a burbling of breath, then another faint spray of blood—timed with the heartbeat or the lungs.
A hideous rattling against the floor. The unmistakable sound of someone dying, just around the corner. Daniel’s hesitation—the final second he’d taken to steel himself—had been the difference between her life and her death.
His heart jerked, a throat-crowding heave.
Even from the far side of the jamb, Daniel saw a sharp flash of light illuminate the kitchen—a camera? He jerked his head back, squinting against the flare.
Before he’d recovered, a dark form strode through the doorway, speeding right past him without taking note. The killer moved quickly but without panic, heading to the front door. The breeze from his movement chilled the panic sweat on Daniel’s face. In the gloom Daniel could make out only parts of the man as he passed through falls of weak light from the windows. He seemed to be big, broad, indistinct in loose-fitting black sweats. At his side dangled a wicked-looking blade, a military knife that he swiped across his thigh and back again.
Unaware of Daniel, the man walked on through the dining room and into the foyer.
At once, for no apparent reason, he halted. His back to Daniel, he was nothing more than shadow against shadow, a charcoal silhouette.
Electricity coursed through Daniel. His chest seized. He didn’t want to take a breath, didn’t want to exhale. If he so much as shifted his weight, it could announce his frozen presence in the darkness.
The man’s head cocked. What the hell was he looking at?
The front door. When Daniel had arrived, it was barely cracked. But in his rush to get to Marisol, he’d left it open several inches.
The man’s arm shifted inside the sleeve of his sweatshirt, muscle flexing as he tightened his grip on the blade.
He turned.
And stared across the unlit dining room at Daniel in the shadows.
It was a horrifying blank face, nothing more than a polished oval. Wait, no—it was a black neoprene mask that was wrapped tight, removing the features. A missing figure-eight band for the eyes, like a reverse superhero mask. Triangular peak in place of the nose. A circle of breathing perforations where a mouth should be.
The knife spun around the man’s black-gloved hand as if of its own accord, flipping across the knuckles, blade catching light. Then the fingers seized it in a new grip, angling it down along the forearm, cutting edge out. A well-practiced hold.
All sound vanished, leaving nothing but a white-noise rush in Daniel’s ears. His back—literally to the wall. Nowhere to run. But that also meant the attacker had only one way at him. Daniel slid his heel to the baseboard, gauging the distance. Let him come, then counter hard.
Daniel lifted the butcher knife.
The man took a step toward him, then another, his boots pounding the floor as he wound into a run.
And then, in the distance, a police siren warbled, freezing the man just as he was getting up speed.
He and Daniel stared at each other across the length of the dining room. Daniel’s chest burned, and he realized he was still holding his breath.
The masked face dipped a bit, perhaps in amusement, and then the other gloved hand rose from the man’s pocket, a small digital camera lifting into view.
Before Daniel could process what was happening, a blinding flash bleached the unlit dining room, turning everything hospital white.
Bright spots, glued to Daniel’s eyes, blotted the ensuing darkness. Yelling, he swiped at the air, blinking his way back to visibility. When it came, he saw that he was alone, stabbing at the darkness.
Chapter 10
“How are you doing?” Theresa Dooley
An instant before he reached three, he heard that same hushed voice say, “Here you go,” followed immediately by a sickening sound: Slit.
Daniel had barely registered the noise when a mist of blood pattered on the visible wedge of kitchen tile.
There came a burbling of breath, then another faint spray of blood—timed with the heartbeat or the lungs.
A hideous rattling against the floor. The unmistakable sound of someone dying, just around the corner. Daniel’s hesitation—the final second he’d taken to steel himself—had been the difference between her life and her death.
His heart jerked, a throat-crowding heave.
Even from the far side of the jamb, Daniel saw a sharp flash of light illuminate the kitchen—a camera? He jerked his head back, squinting against the flare.
Before he’d recovered, a dark form strode through the doorway, speeding right past him without taking note. The killer moved quickly but without panic, heading to the front door. The breeze from his movement chilled the panic sweat on Daniel’s face. In the gloom Daniel could make out only parts of the man as he passed through falls of weak light from the windows. He seemed to be big, broad, indistinct in loose-fitting black sweats. At his side dangled a wicked-looking blade, a military knife that he swiped across his thigh and back again.
Unaware of Daniel, the man walked on through the dining room and into the foyer.
At once, for no apparent reason, he halted. His back to Daniel, he was nothing more than shadow against shadow, a charcoal silhouette.
Electricity coursed through Daniel. His chest seized. He didn’t want to take a breath, didn’t want to exhale. If he so much as shifted his weight, it could announce his frozen presence in the darkness.
The man’s head cocked. What the hell was he looking at?
The front door. When Daniel had arrived, it was barely cracked. But in his rush to get to Marisol, he’d left it open several inches.
The man’s arm shifted inside the sleeve of his sweatshirt, muscle flexing as he tightened his grip on the blade.
He turned.
And stared across the unlit dining room at Daniel in the shadows.
It was a horrifying blank face, nothing more than a polished oval. Wait, no—it was a black neoprene mask that was wrapped tight, removing the features. A missing figure-eight band for the eyes, like a reverse superhero mask. Triangular peak in place of the nose. A circle of breathing perforations where a mouth should be.
The knife spun around the man’s black-gloved hand as if of its own accord, flipping across the knuckles, blade catching light. Then the fingers seized it in a new grip, angling it down along the forearm, cutting edge out. A well-practiced hold.
All sound vanished, leaving nothing but a white-noise rush in Daniel’s ears. His back—literally to the wall. Nowhere to run. But that also meant the attacker had only one way at him. Daniel slid his heel to the baseboard, gauging the distance. Let him come, then counter hard.
Daniel lifted the butcher knife.
The man took a step toward him, then another, his boots pounding the floor as he wound into a run.
And then, in the distance, a police siren warbled, freezing the man just as he was getting up speed.
He and Daniel stared at each other across the length of the dining room. Daniel’s chest burned, and he realized he was still holding his breath.
The masked face dipped a bit, perhaps in amusement, and then the other gloved hand rose from the man’s pocket, a small digital camera lifting into view.
Before Daniel could process what was happening, a blinding flash bleached the unlit dining room, turning everything hospital white.
Bright spots, glued to Daniel’s eyes, blotted the ensuing darkness. Yelling, he swiped at the air, blinking his way back to visibility. When it came, he saw that he was alone, stabbing at the darkness.
Chapter 10
“How are you doing?” Theresa Dooley
Similar Books
