today… yesterday? I was faster now than I was when I was twenty-two. Stronger, too.
He’d tried this before, and I’d won. I had to win again.
Dawn was breaking. The soft light chasing the dark.
I needed the light so I could see where I was running. Focus on getting out of the cabin, I told myself.
“We should have been together, Shelby. But you made me do this. You made me hurt you. And now it’s too late,” he raged.
He hit me with a backhand, which I’d always detested in movies. It felt insulting, degrading. It was both in reality, and it hurt like hell. My face stung.
I shook my head to clear my vision. The shadow was back at the window. But this time, it wasn’t just a shadow.
It was a face peering cautiously through the dirty glass.
Henrietta VanSickle.
My heart lurched in my chest. I wasn’t all alone. It wasn’t up to just me.
What was she going to do? What was I going to do? I needed seventeen plans for all the contingencies. Was she calling for help? Was she creating a diversion? How did people in movie action sequences always manage to communicate their intentions?
God, my face hurt.
My thoughts were scrambling, and I did my best to slow them down. I needed to disable Christian temporarily, break the zip tie, and make it out the front door. That meant I couldn’t be gentle, and I couldn’t miss.
“How did you find me, Christian?” I said loudly. If things went bad, at least Henrietta would have a name to give authorities.
“The man,” he said. “The man. The man.” He was chanting it now.
“A man told you how to find me?” I didn’t know what was delusion, what was truth.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.
“Why? Why?” he roared. “Because you always were mine, and you just kept fighting it. You couldn’t just accept it.”
He was back in my face. The knife pressed against my throat this time. I felt the tip of it prick my skin, felt the hot response of blood. He dragged the blade slowly, shallowly across my neck. I held my breath. One false move and—
The window shattered.
His head swiveled on his neck, the knife thankfully moving a few scant inches away from my flesh. I acted on instinct that would have had my self-defense instructor standing up and applauding. Leaning back, I snapped my head forward, connecting with Christian’s face.
Oh my god. That hurt. If my head ever stopped hurting, it would be a miracle.
I lashed out with my foot. Where the hell were my shoes? It wasn’t a good, clean shot. But it did the trick, sending the knife skittering across the floor.
My next kick was to his groin, and as he fell, I rose from the chair. My legs were jelly. But I managed to step out of his reach and cross to the door. “Run!” I screamed to my hero Henrietta through the broken window.
I reached for the knob, only remembering I was still bound when nothing happened.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it.” I hinged forward, watching as Christian came up on his hands and knees. He howled like a wounded animal. I didn’t know if I should kick him again to buy more time.
But I needed to get the door open.
I gritted my teeth and raised my wrists away from my back. Any shoulder flexibility I’d had previously was hindered by debilitating stiffness. I brought my wrists down against my back hard. God that hurt, and it didn’t work.
Christian spit blood on the floor and started to crawl in my direction.
I slammed my hands down again, this time breaking the tie. My shaking hands made a mess of trying to unlock the front door, but I managed to open the door and slam it behind me.
I heard him hit the door a second later.
“Run!” I yelled again in case Henrietta was still in the area. I took off, jumping the two steps to the ground. My feet hit the ground as the front door burst open behind me. I didn’t stop to look.
I just ran.
Q. Do you have a favorite Bootlegger?
Henrietta Van Sickle: While favoritism is not oft encouraged in relationships with friends, I would certainly be remiss if I did not mention Gibson Bodine. Neither one of us minds a good silence. He has a warm heart beating under the layers of gruffness and antipathy. You can count on him. And in the end, that’s what matters most. Consistency. Loyalty. Gibson is the