Beach Thriller(19)
He laughed. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson you won’t forget. Don’t need the police for that.”
I yanked my arm, slamming my foot into his shin as hard as I could. But he still wouldn’t let go. He kept dragging me toward the empty store. I pictured a back office where no one would see us—or hear my screams.
Desperate, I spat at him, hissing like a wild animal. A thick glob of saliva slithered down his ruddy cheek. His fury exploded. His eyes darkened, and then—
Crack.
His open palm struck my face so hard that my skull rattled. My vision blurred, legs buckling, jaw burning.
He grabbed my shirt to keep me upright, readying to strike again. His fat fingers caught the chain around my neck, and the clasp gave way. A flash of silver fell to the dirt-covered pavement.
His gaze followed. He must have guessed that the necklace was important because he stomped on it, grinding it under his boot.
But for a brief moment, he was distracted.
I reached into my pocket. Instead of the food I had put there, my fingers closed around the can of pepper spray I’d bought on my way out of Pennsylvania. I sweet-talked my way out of the age restriction. No safety top, no fumbling required—I pulled it out and squeezed the trigger.
A blast of acrid-smelling spray struck Goliath square in the eyes. He bellowed, stumbling backward, pawing at his face.
At least he let go of me.
I had to make a break for it, but I wasn’t leaving without my necklace. In one swift motion, I scooped it off the ground—having to make a second grab for the stone he’d knocked loose—then sprinted away.
His voice roared behind me, calling me every horrible name imaginable. But he didn’t matter anymore.
I rounded a corner breathless and wide-eyed, searching for a place to hide when I spotted a run-down auto body shop with a pickup truck parked out front. Without thinking, I dove under the blue tarp covering the truck bed, landing in a pile of construction debris and tools. It wasn’t until I got settled that I realized I had dropped my phone in the tumult, but there was no going back for it now.
I hoped to have a moment to catch my breath, but a few minutes later, the driver got in. The engine roared to life. Before I could say, “Let me out,” we were on the road.
I curled into the fetal position for warmth, jolted with every bump. We drove for an hour, my teeth chattering the whole time. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I banged on the cab window.
The startled driver pulled over. He was older, maybe in his sixties, with quiet, kind eyes. A jeans-and-work-shirt guy. He listened with care as I told him about Goliath.
“You want me to call the cops?”
I shook my head. “I just need to get to Massachusetts,” I lied, saying I had a friend there.
He saw right through me. Still, he invited me to sit up front. He bought me dinner at McDonald’s, and after, he handed me a hundred bucks. He even purchased a bus ticket to my final destination.
“Be careful,” he said. “I’ll pray for you.”
Then he was gone.
* * *
The smell of creamy, gooey mac and cheese wafts up the stairs, pulling me from that awful memory. My stomach rumbles, but thoughts of my savior linger. I never learned that man’s name, never got to thank him. I want more than anything to add Holly Sinclair to my short list of helpful souls.
I emerge from the bathroom wearing a stained T-shirt and jeans that I haven’t washed in weeks, wondering again about the washing machine in the basement.
When I reach the stairwell, there are blue lights flickering through the windows. Shit. Cops. I retreat quickly as something brushes against my leg. I almost scream. Looking down, there’s Holly’s three-legged cat staring up at me. We’ve met a few times when I dared come downstairs to use the bathroom while Holly was out.
He speaks to me in a gentle meow. I press a finger to my lips, begging the cat to stay quiet so he doesn’t give me away. No cops. Not ever. That’s my golden rule.
Sorry, Holly. I wanted this to be different.
I have my bag with me. Luckily, I brought it down from the attic, and I know a safe way out of here.
The cat follows me into the bedroom, still meowing. My pulse races as I slide the window open. Thick, humid air bathes my skin. A sea breeze carries the scent of rain. The thought of getting caught in a storm almost makes me reconsider. Almost.
Before I know it, I’m halfway out the window, testing the trellis. It feels strong enough, but I can’t be sure.
One foot. Then the other. I cling to the windowsill, too terrified to look down. With one hand, I steady myself, inching one foot lower. These things are built for plants, not people, but it holds strong. I descend with caution. When my feet touch the ground, the wave of relief almost knocks me over.
The blue police lights flash brighter outside. A pang of regret hits me. For a moment, I thought Holly and I could be friends—that I wouldn’t be alone anymore.
But some girls just have to keep running.
Chapter 12
The Watcher
Now, it’s getting interesting—and more dangerous. What did you think would happen, Holly? How foolish are you? You’re about to start a fire you cannot contain.
I saw it all: how you called the cops, which sent the girl fleeing into the night. That’s probably for the best. If she’s with you, she isn’t safe either.