Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
At least, that was what I had to believe.
Because if I was on my own, I didn’t have a lot of hope.
I liked to think that I had street smarts and good instincts. But I wasn’t a fighter. I’d never needed to be.
I thought sometimes that if I were ever to be attacked, that some innate instinct would kick in, some feral desire to claw, bite, kick, scream, fight my way out of it.
In reality, though, it all felt like it was happening too quickly to think, let alone move.
I felt as helpless as a baby as I was dragged back up onto my back porch, my back knocking against each step as we went.
My hands shot upward, grabbing at the fist wrapped around my hair, trying to claw his fingers off. When that failed, I scraped my nails against skin.
There was a hiss of pain, but the grip only tightened.
I was vaguely aware of the screen door whacking against the side of the house it was thrown open so hard before my body was moving into the kitchen.
The kitchen was good, though, right?
A kitchen meant knives, forks, heavy pots and pans. Things I could use to defend myself with.
In a moment of clarity, I threw out my hands, grabbing the doorway of my bedroom as I was pulled past it.
My shoulders ached as my attacker tried to keep pulling me.
I held tight, though, even as the screaming across my scalp intensified.
Then just like that, the pain stopped as the hand dropped my hair.
I curled toward the doorframe, pulling myself into my bedroom.
My only clear thought was getting away, slamming the door, then… I don’t know. Climbing out the window? Finding my phone and calling my father? Something. Anything.
I pushed up onto my hands and knees, and was halfway into my room when a kick landed to my hip, sending me flying, my head whacking off of my dresser.
Before I could even push up again to try to scramble away, though, a weight pressed down on me.
The full weight of a man on my hips, pinning me to the ground.
I thrashed and writhed to no avail, feeling freedom slipping away by the second.
My heart was hammering, pounding in my chest, throat, and ears.
I sucked in a breath, ready to finally scream for help.
And that was the exact moment hands closed around my throat, squeezing, cutting off my ability to scream, to breathe.
No.
No.
This was not going to be how it ended.
Strangled to death in my own bedroom.
Fear surged through my system as I tried to suck in a breath and failed.
I wasn’t sure what the rankings were of the worst ways to die. But being slowly strangled to death was completely fucking terrifying while you were experiencing it.
I struggled with everything in me as my face started to feel hot and tingly, as my chest burned from lack of oxygen.
Focus.
I had to focus.
There had to be a way out of this.
I wasn’t exactly a big consumer of true crime. My life had enough of that all around. I didn’t want to indulge in it for “fun.”
But I was a woman in the world.
And the daughter of a cop.
I knew some things.
Like strangulation took a lot longer than people realized.
Four or five minutes.
It was a long-ass time.
Most people had no idea what five minutes felt like while doing something.
Decision made, I forced my entire body to go lax, sinking into the hard floor.
The movement screwed with his hold on me, allowing me to suck in one last, deep breath before the pressure came back.
It was enough, I hoped, to sustain me as I faked my own damn death right there on my own damn bedroom floor.
To distract myself from the pain in my neck and chest, I counted.
One to sixty, then back down to one.
I only got back and forth once before the pressure released on my neck. Then there was a short pause before the weight lifted from my hips.
I had to focus to keep myself perfectly still, to not release my held breath and suck in a fresh one as soon as his body was off of mine.
I stayed there, body stick still, as my attacker backed into the doorway, seeming to stop, watching me, making sure the deed was done, before moving away.
I listened to make sure the footsteps were moving toward the front of the house before I sucked in a breath so deep it hurt.
But I didn’t move.
I didn’t dare.
I didn’t even breathe normally, just in case he rushed back and looked in.
I was dead, damnit, dead.
I listened as the footsteps came back, paused, then made their way out back, the screen door smacking against the wall again.
I still didn’t move, barely breathed.
My bedroom had windows.
I couldn’t remember if the blinds were all the way down, if someone could look inside to make sure I was good and dead.