His arm around her waist squeezed tighter, and she forced herself to stop pushing against it, to lean into him instead. Maybe if he sensed submission, he’d ease up. “I’m sure what’s happening now … this isn’t you. You’re under a lot of stress. I understand. Let’s just step away.”
“Away, away, away.” His voice was a cruel singsong. “So eager to get away.”
Oh, God. She should have listened to Clara.
She should have listened to a lot of things.
“I never meant to hurt your feelings—”
“I didn’t come here for an apology. Do you think I care about apologies?” He spun her around and pressed her roughly against the house, the siding cutting across her back in hard lines. Tears finally found their way into her shocked system, and they spilled out in ugly streams.
“You’re scaring me,” she whimpered.
He laughed, cold and mocking. Izzy’s mind flew through everything he’d ever told her about himself, looking for a way to get through to him, or at least to keep him talking.
“I know it’s hard,” she sobbed. “Not being able to control things in our lives that we don’t like, or people who we wish felt differently. I can relate. I do relate.”
That neurologist guest on Freshly Squeezed had made it all sound so scientific, how brain areas for craving and love were activated by rejection. Izzy had thought only of how it applied to her. But what about someone whose brain was wired differently from the start?
“I’d say I’m pretty in control right now.”
The moon moved behind a cloud, and his face darkened so that she couldn’t quite read his expression, which only made it more ominous. She continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“What I mean is, I can imagine it’s extra hard for you, after spending your childhood at the mercy of your dad’s gambling…”
“Don’t pretend you know me.”
A dog barked. It sounded close. If it was with its owner, maybe someone could hear. But Paul seemed to sense her intake of air, and before she could belt out another scream he clamped his hand over her mouth again. She struggled against him, squirming, kicking one leg and then the other, trying to make any kind of noise at all.
She’d never felt so powerless.
“No one knows me,” he snarled, ensnaring her tighter. Her kicking seemed to have little effect, and she cursed herself for all the times she’d thought of enrolling in a self-defense class but never followed through. He was dragging her now, toward the back door. He was trying to get her inside.
Where no one could hear.
Where no one could see.
She couldn’t let him.
Something jabbed into her gut. The key. Her key. In her coat pocket. Was it sharp enough to do any damage?
It was all she had.
She grunted and squirmed as hard as she could, even as she struggled to breathe against his sweaty palm. Her left clog fell away on one thrash, and her toes crunched into something hard with the next. Sharp pain blinded her, but she couldn’t let it. She’d hit the doorstep. They were on the threshold.
The knob was old, not an easy one to turn, and the door always stuck in the warped frame. If Paul wouldn’t risk uncovering her mouth, he would have to let go of her waist to get it open. He might even have to give it an extra shoulder, or a kick.
He began to wrestle with the handle, his elbow jamming into her ribs, and she twisted, drawing her hand as close to her pocket as she could.
Then the thick arm pulled away from her, and she swung around, not free but loose, as her fingers found the key. She heard the sucking sound of the door reluctantly giving way. He yanked her by the hair, over the step and into the doorway, and she swung blindly with the makeshift weapon, left and then right, frantic not to disappear inside.
She heard him howl.
She was free for an instant.
She lunged forward, back outside, sucking greedy gulps of air.
But he had her again.
His fingers were tightening over hers.
Over the key.
She’d never be able to hold on.
“What is going on?”
The voice was calm but deadly serious. Paul’s arms released her instantly, and Izzy stumbled, gasping, away from him. The floppy four-legged form of Pup-Pup was heading toward her, dragging a leash. And behind the dog, standing in the open gate, was Benny.
“Nothing is going on.” Paul laughed breezily, and Izzy stopped, doubled over to catch her breath, amazed at how smoothly he slid back to center. “Izzy is just playing hard to get. She’s quite good at it—I gather she’s had a lot of practice.”
“I wasn’t asking you,” Benny said. He didn’t crack a smile. “Izzy? My God.” Pup-Pup nuzzled at her hand with a whine, and she crouched and put her shaking arms around the dog, breathing in the animal’s compassion.
I’m safe, she told herself.
For now.
I think.
“Oh, Iz will tell you we were just playing.”
She looked back at Paul, who was peering at her so innocently it seemed he believed his own lie. Holy hell, she thought. This is what he’s used to. Being excused. He’s so accustomed to getting away with this kind of behavior, it hasn’t even occurred to him that I have no reason to cover for him.
The thought that followed, she realized, should have been the first one to enter her mind the instant she’d seen him lurking in the shadows.
It hasn’t even occurred to him that I’m not Kristin.
Still hugging the dog, she watched Paul’s brown leather shoes make their way closer, until she could see how finely made they were, how well stitched, how well polished.
“Not another step toward her,” Benny warned, and the shoes stopped.
She was only an arm’s length away now, and the fear flared anew.
You will not make me feel threatened. You will not make me feel ashamed.
She found the end of the dog’s leash and stood, smiling uneasily at Benny. “He’s right,” she said. “Just a game.” She extended her arm, as if she only meant to hand the dog back, and began to cross to Benny, who was making his way toward her. Only after a couple of awkward steps did she realize how off balance she was, one foot still secure in its clog, the other naked, the pain taking its time receding. She did not avert her eyes. She stared straight into Benny’s and saw that he understood. In spite of her uneven gait, she did a good enough job of pretending to play along that Paul didn’t reach for her. He let her go.
When she got to Benny’s side, she held fast to the leash. “A sick game,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “He stole the spare key to my gate—a month ago, when he helped me install the lock. Tonight I got out of bed for some tea. Through the kitchen window I noticed the gate was open, came out here to shut it, and he attacked me.”
She stepped behind Benny, putting him between her and Paul. Fresh tears came into her eyes. She was shaking harder now, absorbing the vibrations of what had just happened—of what might have happened—and Benny reached a hand back to steady her.
Paul laughed his easy laugh again. “That’s ridiculous. I was out walking, found the key, used it to open the gate just to verify that it was in fact Izzy’s, and was going to leave it here on the patio for her. She caught me by surprise and got the wrong idea.”
“For the past month, my missing key just happened to be lying on the sidewalk?” Izzy’s horror was giving way to anger.
“It was in the grass down by the road. Maybe a squirrel or something made off with it the day we lost it. They like shiny things, don’t they?”
Izzy looked pleadingly at Benny. What would she do if he didn’t believe her? What would she do if no one believed her?
“Well,” Benny said, matching Paul’s easy tone, “I was out for a walk too. Not sure if you met our new dog yet, but he loves our nightly strolls. He makes such a racket at the sight of the leash that I end up taking him to the porch and tying my shoes out there so he doesn’t wake the kids.”
Paul nodded amicably. “Let sleeping babes lie. Beautiful dog,” he added.
“That’s how I saw you head directly from your door to Izzy’s back gate. No leisurely walking. No stooping to pick anything up. A man on a mission.”
Izzy stared at Benny. For some reason, she wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t bluffing, but Paul’s smile wavered almost imperceptibly.