Li’s entire body burned with a heat of a thousand suns, but her lower back and right ankle burned the most. She tried moving, but the pain knocked her back and stole her air. Taking a quick assessment, she could tell that her right knee was only jammed, not broken, but it was beginning to swell. Her ankle was another story. She could feel the break.
How the hell was she going to get out of here?
“Not good.” Li squeezed her eyes shut as pain bolted its way up her back. “Not. Freaking. Good.” Through narrowed eyes, she focused on the door at the top of the stairs. Had Amelia locked it? Why couldn’t she hear Foster or Amelia talking above her? She had to get up. She had a kid and a family. She had a partner. Gathering one giant inhale that rattled every rib in her chest, she bit her lip and went for it, pushing past her body’s protestations. Her screams, as loud as they seemed to her, were no match for her suffering. She could barely see through the tears.
CHAPTER 77
Foster moved back out of striking range of the knife, but Amelia charged, giving her no time to defend herself. The knife came at her fast, and Foster raised her arms to protect her face, the first strike slashing across her right forearm, cutting through her jacket sleeve, cutting into flesh. Amelia pushed in, knocking them both back against the wall, her frenzied face just inches from Foster’s. Amelia was deranged, Foster thought, and in another place.
Foster could feel blood streaming down her arm, feel the sting and ache of the gash. “Stop.” But Amelia didn’t. It didn’t even look like she had heard her. This wasn’t the same woman she had interviewed at the station, the one poised and confident and so, so sure of herself; that woman was gone.
“Get out,” Amelia growled. “It’s my house now.”
Amelia broke free from Foster’s grasp, and the knife came down again, this time slicing across Foster’s right hand. Foster yelled out like a wounded animal and tried backing away again, but Amelia barreled forward, and they both went down hard. Foster could smell her own blood as it colored her hand and began to pool beside her, a madwoman on top of her, intent, it seemed, on making another hole and then slitting her throat. Foster searched Amelia’s face for even a tiny glimpse of sanity, something she could reason with, but there was only madness.
Foster gripped Amelia’s wrists and held on to them, trying desperately to keep the knife away from her throat, but she could feel herself losing the struggle. Amelia was strong and bent on killing, and Foster’s bloody grip was slipping.
“You’re going to die today, Detective Harriet Foster,” Amelia said, her voice low, menacing, her knife inching closer to Foster’s throat.
For Foster, there was a flash of resignation, a moment in which she considered what dying here would mean. She could be with Reg. The pain of his loss would stop. She would no longer be a worry to her family. Good things. But as she held on to Amelia, struggled to fight her off, as she eyed the bloody knife as it got closer to her, wondering whose blood was already on the blade, she quickly dismissed the thoughts and her moment of weakness. She didn’t have just herself to think about. Her partner was in the basement. Li had a husband and a baby, a life. If Amelia got by her, Li would surely be next.
“Amelia. Stop!” Foster screamed as she gathered what was left of her strength and pushed back.
Amelia leaned down, close to Foster’s ear, and whispered, “You ruined everything. You and her. I’d barely begun to perfect my craft. But you just wouldn’t stop coming.”
The pain she was in was off the chain, but there was no way Foster wanted the last eyes she saw on this earth to be those of Amelia Davies. “Anika!”
Amelia startled at the mention of her birth name, and her focus broke. Suddenly, an agonizing wail from the basement pulled Amelia’s attention away from killing. It was all the chance Foster needed. She pulled her hand off the knife and elbowed Amelia in the stomach, then followed up with a blow to her jaw. When Amelia flew back and rolled away, Foster scrabbled away on her knees, flinging herself into a corner across the room, leaving a trail of blood behind her. She needed to stand but couldn’t yet. It looked like Amelia couldn’t either. Facing off from their respective corners, the two were like spent boxers between rounds, waiting for the bell.
Amelia chuckled, though nothing at all was funny from where Foster sat. She watched as Amelia gleefully wiped her blood off the knife, then ran the blade along the leg of her jeans, back and forth, each slow pass cutting into her own skin. Blood quickly soaked the denim. Then Amelia held the knife up to the light from the window, admiring the blade. “This is his, you know. He gave it to me so that I could . . . follow. It’s not big enough to sever hands or feet. I needed a saw but didn’t have one . . . yet, so I had to symbolize the cuts with the lipstick—wrists and ankles. Hands and feet. Hands and feet.” The slow singsong in her voice turned Foster’s stomach. “And a spot of blood, one to the other. Like signing a painting. Genius, right?”
“Li!” Foster called out, but her partner didn’t answer back. Where was Tom Morgan? Was he in the basement as well? Foster tried reaching for her gun, but her bloody fingers wouldn’t work. She stared over at Amelia, but though Amelia stared back, Foster doubted she knew she was there. As she struggled with her holster, Foster stalled for time. “Amelia Davies, you’re under arrest.” The snap on her holster popped free. The gun, she knew, would be difficult to grasp when she got to it. How would she even lift the weapon, let alone aim it and shoot it?
Amelia snapped back from wherever she’d gone in her head, and Foster doubled her efforts with the gun—faster, more determined to get it loose—but no amount of hurry or level of necessity had any impact on her injured hand. Amelia worked her way up onto her feet. Foster got to hers too. If she was going to die, she’d do it standing. Foster slowly raised her arms in front of her, like a fighter, shielding her throat and chest, waiting for Amelia.
“You can’t arrest me,” Amelia said. She shook the knife. “I have this. I intend to make my mark with it.” With the knife she traced a lazy pattern in the air. “I’ll sign you. Like I signed all the others.” She pointed the knife in the direction of the basement. “And then I’ll sign her.”
Foster took a quick inventory. Right forearm sliced, bleeding. Right hand slashed, the cut deep, bleeding, fingers swollen, nearly inoperable. She was beginning to feel light headed. If she lost consciousness, she was dead. “Put the knife down and back away from it.” She meant it as an order, but Amelia paid her no heed. Instead, she stood in Foster’s way, a human blockade between her and the basement door.
“Maybe I kill her first, if she isn’t dead already. Save you for last?” Amelia chuckled like a wicked child playing a dangerous game.
Foster stepped forward. The chuckling stopped. “It’s not going down that way.”
Amelia charged again.
CHAPTER 78
Li was sitting up. That was progress. Whenever she moved or shifted, there was a sharp punch to her spine, and when she ran her hand along the back of her head, she felt a giant goose egg right at her nape. And then there were the twisted knee and broken ankle.