I need to believe that you’ve owned it. Then we’ll be done.”
I felt myself burst into tears. It wasn’t hard; it wasn’t an act. But it was also good cover.
He let me sob, watched the tears flow and my nose run and kept the gun on me with an understanding patience that worried me.
This was about control, just like Temple had said back in California. So now I understood I had several choices, any one of which had to happen in the next two minutes or so.
I could hope Brian wouldn’t come home, but that wasn’t likely. And it still didn’t get me out of this.
I could hope that in a fight outside, Brian would win. Also unlikely, if what Tony said was true.
Assuming that I couldn’t beat Tony, I could hope that Tony would screw up and kill me first. That would break his control, he wouldn’t have me to torment, and that was what this was all about.
Unappealing as well, but it would have to do. I’d either beat Tony or make him kill me. And I had to do it soon.
I tried to wipe my face on my shirt, and sank to one knee. My hands were still clasped in front of me, as he’d commanded, but now I raised them, as if pleading.
“Don’t do this! You can’t do this! I’ll do whatever you want, I swear, only leave Brian out of it. I’ll leave with you, I’ll go anywhere, do anything, only don’t do this to me! Don’t hurt Brian!”
“Sshh, shhh. It’s all right. This is going to happen, Emma. You should accept this. You’re going to learn from this.”
“You can’t, you can’t do this! You won’t get away with it—!”
I deliberately used challenging words. The frown appeared again, the pitch of his voice changed back to the almost querulous insistence. “I am getting away with it. This is going to happen—”
I charged him then.
From my half crouch, I tackled him, ran straight for his hips.
The gun went off, then.
The lights went on, then.
The noise was unbelievable. I felt heat up my back, neck, but surprisingly little pain.
We went down. The flashlight landed with a hard crack, the light out of my eyes, at last. I was on top of Tony now, and spots popped in front of my eyes, but that wasn’t important just yet. Didn’t need to see him to get in close, get control, isolate his gun, arms, legs, teeth.
He tried to push me away, slammed his fist into my face even as I slid up his chest and, with both my hands, pinned his gun hand to the floor. He shouldn’t have tried to push me away, he should have tried to hold me close so my attacks wouldn’t have so much momentum. We grappled, and I kept trying to move up, get my knees under his armpits, to hold him in the mount. Tony threw wild punches, then tried to get my hands off his pinned wrist.
I glanced up and saw his face for the first time in four years.
He’d changed the color of his hair again—dark in Chicago, it was now back to what I assumed was his natural gray-white. Maybe that meant something to him. The beard was gone too; and his face was lined more than the tan skin weather-beaten, nearly toughened into leather. He was older, but he was stronger, too: He’d had a goal, after all. But it was the sharpness of his eyes that was so recognizable, and more than determination, an inhuman focus terrified me, brought me all the way back to Penitence Point, reminding me how helpless I felt then. The shock of those memories was sharp and fresh and suddenly I could feel the cold saltwater and desperation leaching the strength from me all over again.
Sweat glistened on Tony’s face and I saw the scar I’d left on his forehead. I’d hurt him then. I was stronger now, too. I renewed my efforts.
Outside, a man screamed. It was a terrible sound.
Inside me, something died.
Tony hesitated, for an instant. I slammed his fist to the ground. His fingers opened, and I couldn’t grab the gun but could I shove it away from us.
He roared at the loss and writhed beneath me, trying to shove my face away. Keeping my left hand on him, I leaned with my right forearm against his throat. The feel of his struggles under me, as I leaned all my weight on his throat, was beyond satisfying.
Tony turned red,