As he glared at her, waiting for her answer, she moved her right arm slowly along the bed, her fingers searching blindly in the sheets. If she could only reach…
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she pleaded. The press of his hand made her teeth cut into her lips. She could taste her blood and his sweat. “Please,” she whispered. “I won’t tell.”
“What do you mean? You’re singing about it,” he said.
She closed her eyes. “It’s just a song,” she whispered.
He dug the muzzle of the gun into her breastbone. She’d reached her arm as far as it could go.
Nothing.
“You belong to me,” he said. “Remember?”
She reached a millimeter farther, and she could feel…leather. Her finger hooked around a strap.
“But you can’t be trusted,” she heard him say.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “You’re right,” she hissed as she grabbed the shoe by the sole and drove the stiletto heel into his eye socket. He hollered in shock and pain, and she bucked her hips up as hard as she could, unbalancing him. Another buck and he was falling off the edge of the bed. AnnieLee scrambled up and flung herself away, landing on her hands and knees. Then she sprinted out of the bedroom.
Behind her, she heard him crash into something, half blind and raging. She’d hurt him, but it didn’t matter. He was coming.
As she rounded the corner, she saw that he’d blocked the door with an armchair. She’d never get it out of the way in time, not before he reached her. She screamed in rage and turned toward the living room.
She ran, nearly colliding with the huge, stupidly luxurious sofa. As she cleared the coffee table, she heard another crash behind her. Up ahead was her only escape.
A balcony leading to nothing but air.
Chapter
73
The hot, bright sun flared in her eyes. She could hear music floating skyward from the pool, the bass thudding like a distant heartbeat.
AnnieLee stumbled and caught herself against the doorframe. There was a crash from behind her as she stepped onto the chaise longue. It tipped under her weight, nearly unbalancing her, but she grabbed the railing and flung her leg over it.
Her stomach twisted in nauseated fear, and her courage wavered.
I can’t, she thought. I can’t do it.
But then she heard him calling for her, and she knew that she had to.
If she had to die, she was going to do it on her own terms. No way in hell was she going to let that bastard kill her with her own damn gun.
She was on the railing now, perched like a bird. It was time to fly. Either she’d know all kinds of answers soon—like if there was a heaven, and if her mother was waiting for her—or else she might know nothing ever again.
She turned her head and saw him coming, the gun hidden behind a pillow, and suddenly she almost laughed out loud. He’d called her a dumb hick, but he thought a pillow actually worked as a silencer?
But these didn’t seem like proper last thoughts, and last thoughts they probably were. He was only going to fire once, and he was going to make sure it hit.
There was only one way out. She flung herself into the air.
Dry wind whipped at her face. She heard people yelling, but her own scream strangled in her throat.
Regret consumed her, hot as fire. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want—
She couldn’t take anything back. But she pinwheeled her arms, as if she could slow herself down. Her white robe billowed around her legs.
Below her was the glass canopy of the hotel entrance, glittering in the sunlight, rushing up toward her. It would be over soon. The fall—and maybe everything. She relaxed every joint, every muscle. She closed her eyes.
Then she plunged through the awning, shattering it into a thousand sharp and shining pieces. A second later she crashed down onto one of the boxwoods that lined the Aquitaine entrance, and then she spilled onto the golden carpet.
Chapter
74
She couldn’t feel or see anything. She seemed to exist outside her body, painless and floating. She wondered if she was dead and her brain didn’t know it yet.
She struggled to open her eyes, and when she finally could, she gasped to see where she was. She was lying on a sagging mattress in a dim, humid room. There was no comforter or pillow, only thin sheets. The air smelled like stale and unwashed bodies. Her body was too heavy and she couldn’t sit up. She turned her head toward the window, where a few rays from a streetlamp shone through the vertical blinds. A thin wisp of cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling.
No, she thought. No, no, no.