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)
I started counting again.
Up to sixty, back down to one.
Twice.
Three times.
It wasn’t until I got to five that I sucked in another greedy breath, and tilted my head to look around.
There was nothing.
Just my room.
My clothes from before my shower half hanging out of my hamper. My cup of coffee from earlier still on my nightstand.
What I didn’t see, though, was my phone.
I left it on my bed.
Hadn’t I?
Maybe I brought it into the bathroom?
I didn’t remember doing that, but I felt like I’d been a bit in a daze since I got home. I was trying to blame the lack of sleep, not the niggling grief that was trying to drag me to bed.
I pushed up onto all fours, then sat back on my feet for a second, my head spinning hard enough for my hand to shoot out, grabbing the edge of my bed to steady myself.
It was okay.
It was going to be okay.
I just… had to get to the bathroom to get my phone.
Call my dad.
Then hide and wait until he showed up.
Likely with half of the police force in tow.
With that in mind, I forced myself to stand, to walk unsteadily toward my bathroom, closing the door behind me as an added source of security.
One glance at the sink vanity said there was no phone, though.
I knew I had it in my hand when I went into the bedroom.
And I knew I hadn’t brought it out into the kitchen with me when I went to find…
“Oh, God,” I hissed, heart sinking.
Stan.
Uncle Stan.
Where was he?
Was he dead?
How the hell else had someone gotten to me?
What about the cop in the cruiser?
Too many questions.
No ways to find answers without my phone.
With nausea creeping up my throat, I turned in a circle, looking for something to grab to use as a weapon.
But it was a bathroom.
It wasn’t like my safety razor or shampoo bar could do any damage.
I reached for the top of the toilet tank, cringing at the clanking sound it made as I freed it.
It wasn’t much.
But with a good enough swing, it could do some damage.
Just to get me to the kitchen, where I could get a knife and a frying pan.
From there, I could creep around, trying to peek outside, see if my attacker was still around.
I had no landline.
So without my cell, I was just a sitting duck.
I could try to sneak next door to use my neighbor’s phone.
Anxiety prickled across every nerve ending as I moved into my bedroom, side stepping the floorboards I knew would creak.
The house was silent, save for my clock in the living room that ticked loudly enough to drive me half-crazy sometimes.
My pulse seemed to beat in tune with it as I stepped out of my bedroom.
Tick-tock.
There was no one in the kitchen.
The wooden back door was open, but the screen was still closed.
I moved toward the drawer holding my knives, and pulled out the biggest chef’s knife I owned.
Tick-tock.
I put down the tank lid, grabbing a cast iron skillet instead. Easier swinging, I figured.
Now the question was… front or back door?
My neighbor locked both.
It was late.
He was likely in bed.
He had the upside part of the duplex, where the main bedroom was located. But with his mobility issues, he started sleeping in a small room toward the back by his kitchen.
It took him a bit to get moving, but he would be closer to the back door.
I felt an automatic knot in my stomach at the idea of going out my back door, my mind flashing back to the beating, the fall, the dragging by my hair.
A shiver coursed through me even looking at the door.
Tick-tock.
I had to move.
My gaze whipped around the kitchen once again, trying to find my phone. But it wasn’t there. What was there, though, was Uncle Stan’s key fob.
If I couldn’t rouse my neighbor quickly enough, I could run for the car. Wherever Stan was, he wouldn’t approve of me taking his car, even if he was… incapacitated. But he would understand. My father could make good on it if I scratched or put a ding in it.
I placed the knife down to stick my finger through the keychain part of the fob, then grabbed the knife again, and made my way toward the back door.
My side hurt.
My face hurt.
My throat hurt.
Swallowing was miserable.
My head was pounding.
But overwhelming all of that was the panic that got stronger with each step I took toward the back door.
Tick-tock.
I almost wanted to yell at the damn clock to shut the fuck up.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the screen door with my shoulder, gaze scanning the darkened yard.
I usually opted against light pollution, so I didn’t have a bunch of lights around. I suddenly wished I had a bunch of motion lights on all sides of the house. If I survived this, I was going to put some up. Light this fucking yard up.