Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Afraid to turn my back on the intruder, I never look away from his imposing form as I paw at the door, but pulling on the handle is useless. All four locks are in place, of course. My muddled brain suggests the invader must have entered through here, but it’s not the chill in my bones that’s causing my goosebumps.
The window is open, and a gust of wind sends in a flurry of snow.
How? How the fuck did he get in here? I live on the third floor.
Everything happens all too fast. He’s saying something about a wish, but I can barely hear him through the thudding of blood in my ears.
The gun. I need to get to the gun, because I don’t have time to open all the locks before he descends on me. But as I turn and twist out of the assailant’s grasp, my wonky knee gives out and I fall to the floor—or I thought I would, because the man in black grabs my arm, saving my face from hitting the carpet.
He’s wearing leather gloves.
He’s here to kill me.
He’s gonna fucking kill me.
“Let me go!” I cry out, putting all my panic and determination into jabbing at him with my elbow.
I did hit something, and he moans in pain.
As soon as he lets go, I crawl toward my bedroom, not even caring that I lost my towel at some point. My heart is so frantic I’m getting dizzy, but I’d rather pass out than lie down and let him take my life.
“We need to talk!” he yells, but the sound of his voice tells me he’s not as close as before and that’s the only thing I care about.
I scramble to my feet and slam the bedroom door shut behind me as soon as I reach it. And lock it, because yes, I have a lock here too. And a latch.
I’m at my bedside table when I hear a slow, deliberate knock. “Rowan…”
But I don’t care what he has to say. I grab my gun and take off the safety with blood thudding in my veins like a war drum.
“I’m going to shoot!” I yell, but that’s my only warning. He’s in my house. This is self-defense.
I shoot at the door three times, screaming my head off.
This is nothing like the well-aimed, deliberate practice at the range. This is survival, and I might not hit the jackpot, but I’m fine with that as long as it gets me the result I want.
There’s a scramble in the corridor, as if his boots slipped on something, but then…nothing.
Pure silence, as if the world around me has stilled, awaiting my next move.
Is he… dead?
The deep breaths I’m taking won’t help me calm down, but they give me enough self-control to step forward and put my ear against the door.
Nothing. No walking around, no wheezing or cries for help, zero sounds.
I slowly unlock the door with the gun in my sweaty grasp. “I’m coming out, but I will shoot again,” I say as if I really have the confidence to be this cool-headed. My brain is a bowl of marbles hitting against each other as I walk. Some of them are definitely missing.
But as I walk out, hands trembling, there’s no one in the apartment. No blood. No man dead on the floor. Even the window is closed.
I rush to it, and as I come close enough, there’s no denying that the intruder broke the lock.
All I can think about is how badly I need to leave. There’s some commotion in the corridor, but I pay it no mind as I put on a pair of sweatpants, a jacket over bare skin, and storm out as I am, since I don’t have the brain capacity to grab shoes.
I need to be somewhere else.
One of the doors nearby shuts as I dash outside, not even bothering to lock my apartment behind me, because getting to the police station is my priority. I stumble toward the elevator, cradling the gun in my hands as it opens, letting me in. But while I keep watching the hallway for signs of the intruder or his accomplices, I see no movement until the door shuts behind me.
The muted wail of a siren is like a balm to my heart. Of course, one of my neighbors called the cops. I would have done it too.
The damp snow turns my feet into bits of ice, but I’m too frightened to care about the discomfort it’s causing and run toward the promise of safety offered by the flashing red and blue lights. I don’t realize I’m crying until the salty tears reach my lips.
I’m breathless by the time I reach the cop car.
“I—There was an i-intruder—” I utter, unable to make my tongue work right as a policeman I vaguely recognize from town leaves the car, watching me with narrowed eyes.