Chapter One


It’s 2:46 a.m.

I cough back on my saliva, choking, bracing, a short panic.

I rise up in my bed without a thought, just a motion. A reaction of sorts!

A scuffling chatter, creaks from the baseboards below.

The air in our bedroom is thick and heavy.

I think I hear a noise coming from downstairs. No! I know I hear a noise coming from downstairs.

“Dale!”

I try calling out for my husband, but I forget he is not in Syracuse right now. He’s a research development director and half the time he is away on business. There are even times I think he is at home when he is not and there are times I feel he isn’t here when he is. We have grown into having this distant relationship, so to speak, but at this moment I’d rather have him here in the house at least.

A dish pierces the floor, shattering against the hard wood, causing me to refocus my attention. All I can think of is the china. Oh no, not the fine china. I know it’s shallow, but it was a gift from Dale’s late grandfather. A wedding gift, at that.

Reality hits me again. I hop out of bed, and snatch my robe, wrapping it around my frigid body. I yank the straps tightly then tiptoe toward the bedroom door.

Maybe I should close the door, hide and call 911, but then again, I left my cell phone on the kitchen counter last night somewhere in the midst of that old seventies music and a half bottle of chardonnay. Besides, I’m not the hiding type. I will not just sit back coy, like the damsel in distress needing a rescue or something.

No, that’s not me. That’s not Dani. It’s not who I am, or how I was raised.

I snatch the wooden baseball bat Dale keeps wedged behind the bedroom door. He hates guns, so he says the bat is there just for protection. I squeeze the handle tightly. The sweat on my palms merge with the wood. I try to ignore the feeling and slowly open the door with the tips of my toes of my bare right foot.

The hallway is as cold and creepy as a cemetery at night, and the house is pitch-black dark. That is, except the over glare of a couple of flashlights from below the stairs, bouncing off the ceiling like those pen lights cats all go crazy over.

How many of them are there? Do they even know someone’s home?

I creep toward the stairs. Delicately, soundless, careful.

The lights disappear. I glance over the banister. There’s nothing, not a peep, not a sound. Where did they go?

I make my way down the stairs; light creaks from my steps pierce the cool air.

Slow, steady, breathless.

As I descend, I raise the bat eye level, squeezing it as tightly as I can, despite the slippery, oily sweat gushing from my hands.

When I reach the bottom step, a dim light flicks on from the kitchen area. I cautiously peer to the left, and then over to my right, as if I were crossing the street during rush-hour traffic.

Wait! I just saw a figure pass the kitchen. Enough to make out dark clothes, black boots, tattoos on his neck.

I follow, edging closer and closer, my heart racing. I brace myself, pulling the sweat-drenched bat back, anxious to swing.

There he is! He’s calmly observing my kitchen as if he were shopping for groceries in a supermarket. Broad build, husky, and a bit stocky. He has on a mask covering eighty percent of his face.

I advance toward him, almost as if I am floating. I cannot feel my feet moving. I just know I am closing the distance between us.

I stand directly behind him, my breath damn near on his neck.

He turns. I flinch, and he gasps.

I try to swing, but I am too close. Almost instantly, he grabs the bat, but I don’t let go.

Shit! He’s way too strong.

Dani, how did you get into this mess?

He flings the bat and me across the kitchen counter, knocking down utensils, the half bottle of wine, as well as my cell phone. I slam hard against the kitchen floor, banging the base of my head. The baseball bat lands on the floor beside me.

Broken pieces of china now mix with the alcohol and glass shards from the bottle of chardonnay. The phone battery skips out of the back of my phone.

He jumps over the counter, his hands on the bat, and falls on top of me, pressing the wooden handle against my throat, restricting my airway.

“Fucking bitch,” he growls.

I feel myself quickly losing air. A single tear falls from my right eye.

My one hand is locked around his wrist, the other against the broken glass on the floor. Oh, shit! How am I going to get out of this? This is all happening so fast.

Blood drips from a deep cut on my hand. My throat closes. I’m slowly fading in and out.

What the hell was I thinking? Stupid move, Dani, stupid move.

My phone is laying to the left of me, the battery two feet away, but the back cover of the phone is wedged in between the bottom of the stove and the floor.

This sucks. I might die here. The thought enrages me. I struggle to grasp the idea.

From the corner of my eye, off to the right I see my big spoon – the type you stir chili with – and my long kitchen knife. They accompany each other side by side among the spilled utensils scattered across the floor.

I try desperately to reach them, and, for a moment, I feel hopeful. I feel like God is giving me a hand.

Among the agony, and the pain, I have a chance to fight. I stretch my arm so far it feels out of socket. This is my last shot, or I will die here on my own kitchen floor.

Come on, come on! I have to do something, anything.

Things are going black, the room’s view fuzzy and dull; like the worst hangover.

My bloody fingers are prickling the base of the knife. I force an outstretched arm as far as I can, still barely grabbing its slender frame with the tips of my fingers.

I slam the blade all the way into the guy’s right side. The sounds of flesh being sliced through echo in my ears. Once! Twice! Three times! I drop the weapon, the entire blade and handle covered in blood.

I lay clinging to the floor, coughing feverishly.

He falls to the floor. The bat slowly rolls off my neck and to the floor on the opposite side. His partner rushes in and just stands at the kitchen doorway. He slumps his shoulders in disappointment. In his one hand, there is a gun half raised.

This is it. I won’t be able to get away from this in one piece. Sealed fate, I feel.

Wait! Maybe this is a dream; it sure as hell feels like one. I try desperately to convince myself it is, but I know it’s not.

He lowers the gun. Then for some strange reason he takes off his mask. His appearance is average looking; goatee, fair skin, a bit of a receding hairline.

Why the fuck did he do that? I mean, I can identify him, but then again, what are the chances he’ll let me live, especially now that he’s shown me his face?

He looks at me with sadness, almost as if he knows me, needs me, feels for me. I can’t explain it. It’s just really strange. The guy is in a slight bit of a daze and he exhales deeply.

Blood spewing from his partner engulfs half of the kitchen floor, but he doesn’t appear to even care about him. He’s in a deep trance; bewildered, stuck, confused.

After a few moments, he tucks the gun into his pants, and with a lost expression on his face he just walks away.

What was that? Why am I still alive? Why didn’t he kill me?

Sirens sound; cop cars from a distance, yet close. Who could have called the cops? It probably isn’t for me, or maybe our nosey neighbors have figured something out and called for help. They are so good for that, but almost a little too late. In fact, they are much too late tonight.

I drop my head slightly on the solid kitchen floor opposite the blood. I’m puzzled but relieved he didn’t shoot me. The man next to me is cold and lifeless. He’s not so lucky. The blood keeps flowing from his open wounds. It just won’t stop. I never in my thirty-two years of life on this earth, have seen this much blood.