by Lilah Pace
“It’ll come back. ” After a few moments, I venture, “This Christmas, when we were talking about Jonah—you said the hot ones always had a dark side. You were thinking about Ryan, and how he treated you. ”
“It wasn’t an SOS signal. So don’t beat yourself up about it. ” Kip probably needs to talk about this more, but he makes it clear he doesn’t intend to. “Can we talk about something less tiresome than our love lives? What else is going on with you?”
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I’m creatively blocked and refusing extravagant gifts from my ex. “Well, let’s see. Uh, I’ve been playing matchmaker, but I don’t know whether it’s working. ”
He perks up. Sometimes people need distraction more than introspection. “Really. Tell me, who are the two lucky people? Or if you’re trying to link up more than two people at a time, points to you for both polyamory acceptance and ambition. ”
I blow the paper sleeve of my straw at him. “Carmen and Geordie always seemed to get along, and they’d been spending more time together, so . . . ”
Kip snorts soda up his nose, then sputters and laughs until he can manage to speak again. “Carmen Ortiz and Geordie Hilton? Are you kidding me?”
Stung, I say, “They’re hanging out a lot these days!”
“Because babies have the same inexorable pull as black holes. Honestly, Vivienne. Those two have no chemistry. They have—anti-chemistry. Like matter and antimatter! If they touched, they’d explode. ”
“I don’t think that’s real science. ”
Kip ignores this. “You’d have better luck setting up Neil Patrick Harris and Ellen DeGeneres. At least those two have something in common. ”
“Carmen and Geordie have plenty in common,” I insist. But—do they? Although they’ve always been friendly, and enjoy hanging out . . . Carmen loves silly comedy movies, while Geordie goes to see every pretentious foreign drama that exists. She’s politically almost conservative; Geordie will probably wind up in the Green Party. She’s an observant Catholic, he’s agnostic, he hopes to move back to Europe in a few years but she can hardly imagine living as far away as California—
And now I get why Kip is laughing. I’ve been fooling myself this whole time.
“Okay, maybe not. ” My blush feels warm on my cheeks.
Kip actually has to wipe tears from his eyes. “Whatever gave you the idea? Did you experiment with hallucinogens? Take a blow to the head?”
“I thought I’d picked up on a vibe. Guess I was wrong. ”
He puts his chin in his hand. “Remember how I said you hate conflict? Related issue—you often try to fix things that aren’t yours to fix. You probably thought one or the other was lonely, and your imagination folded reality like an origami swan to try and give them both a happy ending. But even origami doesn’t fold up that neatly. ”
“I’ve been worried about Geordie,” I admit. Although we haven’t discussed Geordie’s recovery, I feel certain Kip knows the details. His omnipotence may be in doubt, but not his omniscience. “He needs all the love and care he can get. ”
“Don’t we all?”
It was supposed to be a joke. But the last word catches in Kip’s throat, and for the next few minutes, every tall man I see could be Jonah. Is Jonah, in that initial, cruel folly of the mind.
• • •
That night neither Shay nor Carmen needs groceries, so I’m shopping alone for once. I make sure to run to the store well before dark. One pound of turkey, one loaf of bread that might go moldy before I finish it: Groceries for the single are slightly depressing.
But hey. When you’re single, wine and cashews make a perfectly good dinner. So I’m just going to roll with that.
I get home just before twilight and cast an appraising glance up at the security lights. The sky hasn’t darkened enough for them to activate yet. Any second now—
The impact against my waist knocks the breath out of me, making me stumble. One of my grocery bags goes flying, plastic ripping against the stone walkway and scattering pasta on the pale spring grass. A branch, I think at first, dazed with surprise and distracted by the pain lancing through my skinned knee. From the bushes?
Then two hands stretch a cord across my throat, and I realize what’s happening.
“Walk into your house,” the Stalker says. “Don’t say a word. ”
I remain kneeling on the stones for a second longer, paralyzed by a thousand colliding thoughts. Shit, oh shit, oh shit! Do I know that voice? I have to be dreaming this. Please don’t let him kill me. Not again! Don’t let this happen to me again! One idea begins to loom larger than all the rest. Get the pepper spray.
When I reach for my purse, though, the Stalker tightens the cord against my larynx. “Leave it. ”
“The keys. ” The words come out raspy. “I can’t open the door without the keys. ”
He hesitates. “Let me see them. ”
Will he recognize the tiny pink canister dangling from my keychain? Maybe. That just means I have to work fast.
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I fumble in my leather hobo bag a second longer than necessary, not only finding the keys but also hooking my fingers into the pepper spray. He’s behind me, but on his feet while I’m still on my knees, so if I spray upward and back that might work, up and back, up and back—
Now! I spray the stuff overhead, and the cord slips away as he stumbles to the side, coughing. Instantly I lunge to my feet and run to the door, purse still dangling around one wrist. Please let him run for it, or be overcome just long enough for me to get on the other side of this door!
Key in lock, turn, push, turn, slam. That’s the plan, and I get as far as the second turn. But when I wheel around to shut the door, he barrels through it so hard he knocks me across my tiny kitchen. The small of my back hits the porcelain rim of my sink, and my head thuds against the cabinets. Dishes rattle, and he’s inside, the Stalker’s inside my house, and he’s closed the door behind him.
He’s big. Not that much taller than me, but bulky, like a football player. He’s wearing the most nondescript blue jeans and white T-shirt, plus a dark brown ski mask that barely covers his thick neck. Somehow his mouth and eyes are more horrifying glimpsed through that mask, as if the disguise reveals just how inhumanly gleeful they are. He has me where he wants me, and he likes it.
“Nobody’s getting in here,” he says. “So you better be nice to me. ”
I do know that voice.
For one split second, despair closes over me, suffocates me. I’m trapped. I’m facing my worst nightmare yet again, and this time there’s no guarantee I’ll even walk away alive. The Stalker is stronger than me and we both know it.
But thanks to that self-defense class, I know something else too. I don’t have to be stronger than he is. I just have to be strong enough to hurt him.
And I am.
I had to let go of the pepper spray to grab the key. But I fumble with the keychain anyway, as if to get at it again. The Stalker lunges for that hand, as I knew he would. That leaves my left hand free to go for the wooden block next to the sink, the one where I store my knives. The cool plastic handle feels good in my hand, and then there’s the rasp of metal on wood as I pull the blade free.
With one stroke I slash across the Stalker’s chest, tearing open his shirt and spraying a fine mist of hot blood across my hand and chest. I stab at him again, but he brings my arm down against the counter so hard that—in the first flush of pain—I think my wrist might be broken. I don’t care. I can still fight.
Quickly I swing my knee up into his groin; he doubles over and loses his grip on my left hand. Thank God I’m wearing high heels, because they call ’em stilettos for a reason. I stomp down on his foot as hard as I can, and I feel the seams of his cheap tennis shoes give away. He howls, a primitive baying sound that sends a chill through me.
By now the Stalker must be almost as desperate as I am. He sounds like an animal going in for the kill.
But
I’m the one with the knife.
This time I don’t slash. I stab. He wheels out of the way, so the blade doesn’t go into his chest like I’d hoped—but the point sinks into his upper arm. His flesh resists more than I thought it would, but I push hard. Blood streams over my hands; I must’ve hit a vein.
The Stalker’s fist slams into the side of my face, so hard it knocks me into the cabinets. Dazed as I am, I don’t lose my grip on the knife. When the blade pulls free of his arm, the blood begins to gush from him in earnest. He grabs at the wound, and in that instant I know he’s not sure whether to continue the attack or get the hell out.
That instant is the one I need to let go of the knife, and grab my marble cookie jar with both hands. With all my strength I swing it upward and smash it into his jaw. My reward is a scream, and the sound of splintering bone, and the sight of him sagging against the wall, then sliding onto the floor, semiconscious.
Blood makes my fingers slippery, but I’m able to open the door and I see my phone lying on the welcome mat where it must’ve fallen from my purse. “Somebody help!” I shriek as I dial 911. I’m in the doorway now, neither in nor out, able to be heard and seen without taking my eyes off my attacker. Across the street, I see someone come to their window; I’ve drawn attention.
Through the phone come the tinny words: “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“A man broke into my apartment. Ski mask. The Stalker. He’s down. ” I’m panting so hard, I’m not sure the woman on the other end of the line has heard me. “I’ve got him down. The police need to get here, now. ”
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“Down?”
Are people stupid or am I just too out of it to understand? “The Stalker tried to rape me! I beat the shit out of him! Will you come arrest him already?”
“Give me your name and address?”
I do. By now the middle-aged man who lives across the street is headed this way with a fireplace poker in his hands; I wave him over, then lean in quickly to grab my keys and pepper spray, which lie on the floor atop my purse. The Stalker has pushed his way into a seated position, but he seems unable to get to his feet. Good.
The 911 operator says, “You believe your attacker is the Austin Stalker?”
“I think so. What I know is that his name is Mack. ”
Mack startles. He hadn’t realized I’d caught on.
“I think his last name is Lahane. He roomed with a friend of mine a couple years ago. ” Shay lived in the same apartment complex as one of the victims last year; Mack would’ve been Arturo’s roommate then, would’ve ridden over there with him several times. And through my friendship with Carmen, Mack spotted me. I bet none of the attacks were random; he’s had his eyes on all of us for a long time. “He drives a pickup truck. White. It should be parked near here. ”
“We’re on our way. ” I hear the operator typing. Right now everything I’m saying is probably being filed under “allegations. ” The proof will come soon enough.
As I remain on the line, tasting blood from the cuts in my mouth, Mack says, “How’d you—”
“I recognized your voice. And your thick fucking neck. I always thought you looked like a canned ham in a shirt. ”
The ski mask doesn’t disguise Mack’s sneer. Even with him lying at my feet, bloody from my attack, the hatred in his voice gives me the shivers. “I know about you. I heard what Geordie said at the party. You fucking wanted this. ”
“I think your knife wounds prove I didn’t want it—ever—you piece of shit. ” Slumping against the door in relief, I welcome the approaching footsteps of my first rescuer, and the distant wail of police sirens.
Unconvinced, Mack says, “I thought we were going to have some fun. ”
“I’m having fun right now, Mack. ”
And somehow it’s true. I beat the shit out of my attacker and I fucking loved it. This might just be the most fun I’ve ever had.
Either this is the best day of my life, or I’ve finally cracked.
Thirty
Good Cop and Bad Cop were wary at first. I’d provided Jonah with an alibi for two of the Stalker’s earlier attacks; was this only my next attempt to cover for him, by framing an innocent man?
But even they couldn’t ignore the bleeding guy in a ski mask lying on my floor, and when they found duct tape and some belongings from the other victims in his trunk, they became believers. Mack asked for a lawyer. I don’t have to see him again.
At the hospital, as a doctor shines a light in one of my eyes, then the other, Good Cop shakes his head. “It’s just a hell of a coincidence. You knowing the guy and our other suspect. ”
“College towns, I guess. ”
The thing is—it’s not a coincidence at all. Mack was at the party where Geordie blurted out my rape fantasy; so was Jonah. They each heard it. Jonah came to me and asked to fulfill my fantasy in a way that would make me feel both safe and satisfied. Mack stored it in his head along with all the other twisted visions of what he wanted to do to unwilling women, and targeted me for later. Every single woman he attacked is one he had encountered in the past few years.
Did I push Mack over the edge? When he heard about my fantasy at the party, did it give him ideas? My logic rejects this almost instantly; the fuse that led Mack to explode would’ve been a long one, lit before I ever met him. Yet this goes deeper than logic. I’m still fighting to reconcile everything that happened tonight, everything I felt.
Always, because of my fantasy, I’ve questioned myself at the deepest level. Why would I wish for something so hurtful? Would I desire someone who really tried to harm me? That was the part that haunted me the night I met Jonah. Well, now I have the answer: No. I wouldn’t desire that. I would in fact beat the living hell out of anyone who attempted it.
Or I would’ve tried. Mack had only attacked three other women, ever, none of whom had my self-defense training. If he’d been more experienced, or caught up with me at a weaker moment, this might not have ended as well.
“You don’t show signs of a concussion, but the blow to the head—we’ll want to keep tabs on you. ” The doctor begins taking notes on a clipboard.
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“I don’t want to stay in the hospital,” I plead. “Please. I want to go—”
Where? Home? Blood will still be drying on my floor. Tonight I feel like I can’t deal with that gore, even if it is proof of my victory.
The doctor doesn’t look up from her notes. “Any nausea or dizziness? Vomiting?”
“No. ” My guts feel as if they’re churning, but that’s not physical. I can tell it’s emotional.
“Okay. If you develop those symptoms—or any visual changes, even a headache, you need to get back in here ASAP. Otherwise—you’re good to go as soon as we bandage that knee. ” The doctor finally looks up, her smile uncertain. “Would you like to speak with a counselor?”
“I have a therapist. I’ll talk with her soon. ” However, I haven’t texted Doreen yet. I only called Carmen and told her the basics; she’s supposed to be taking care of everything else. She’ll have to break it to Arturo that his former roommate, a guy he trusted, is the Stalker. God, that’s going to kill him . . .
Why are you worrying about Arturo? You’re the one with a black eye and blood drying under your fingernails! But my brain and my heart are still spinning, jumbled, unable to decide what to think and how to feel.
Bad Cop leans his head around the ER curtain. “Hey, we got news media out front. Somebody needs to stall them. ”
“Like hell,” I snap. “Somebody in your department leaked the name of an innocent man. The least you can do is clear Jonah Marks at the first possible opportunity, which is this second. ”
Good Cop and Bad Cop look at each other, mumble sheepish good-byes, and walk out of this examination area, hopefully out of my life. The doctor pats my shoulder and asks me to hold on for someone to bandage my knee, then goes on her way, leaving me alone.
I shift
position on this table, paper crinkling beneath me. Blood spatter stains my skirt and sweater so heavily it will never come out. Should I burn these clothes or frame them? My tongue searches for the tiny cuts in my mouth, even though they sting. With filthy hands I fish around in my purse and grab my phone. Through the blood smears on the screen I see texts scrolling all the way down my screen.
From Carmen: Are you okay? Are you upset? What am I saying, of course you’re upset. Holy shit, I can’t believe it was Mack!
From Shay: Come stay with us tonight, please, we’ll feel so much better if you’re not on your own. We love you.
From Arturo: If that motherfucker makes bail I’m gonna kill him myself. V, I’m so sorry I brought that guy into your life. I never saw it.
From Kip: Hail the conquering heroine! My God, you’re like Sarah Connor and Sydney Bristow and Michonne all wrapped into one! You’re FURIOSA!
From Geordie: It’s over, OK? It’s all over. Be proud of yourself, luv. Let me know whatever you need.
There are a handful of other texts from people I don’t know as well, including some I feel sure Carmen wouldn’t have reached out to. News is spreading fast, then. If there are news crews in front of the hospital, they’ve probably staked out my house as well. Another reason not to go home.
But I see no message from the person I wanted most.
It hasn’t been an hour, I remind myself. Just keep moving.
Simple, concrete tasks would be best right now. Okay, wherever I sleep tonight, I’ll need clothes and toiletries, and I don’t want to go back into the house even to pack a bag—not until daylight. Is Target open this late? I could ask Geordie or Carmen to swing by, pick up a couple basic things . . .
In the hallway, someone official-sounding says, “Excuse me, are you cleared to go in there?” I look up just in time to see Jonah pull back the curtain.
His eyes search my bruised, ragged form, but it’s like he’s the one bleeding. His fist tightens around the hospital curtain; his face goes pale. Behind him appears an intern, ready to pull the intruder away. I find my voice. “It’s okay. He’s here for me. ”
The intern shrugs and walks off. Jonah steps inside, just far enough for the curtain to swing back into place behind him, but says nothing.
Instead he lowers himself, carefully, onto a chair near the examination table. His entire posture has altered—shoulders down, head ducked—and I realize he’s making himself smaller. Taking a position beneath me. He sees that I’ve been hurt; always, before, he’s responded to that by protecting me. Sometimes to the point of trying to control me. Now this powerful man is folding himself double to make me feel strong.