After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

It crossed her mind that she probably shouldn’t drive because she was a stage or two beyond buzzed, but the thought of calling a taxi or Uber or phoning a friend and leaving her car, a leased BMW convertible, in the parking lot all night freaked her out. And she didn’t dare dial Barb, who would look at her disapprovingly and probably revoke her babysitting privileges. Besides, it was only a few blocks to her apartment, less than a mile, really, and she’d be careful behind the wheel.

Of course she would.

As she reached the parking lot, she thought she heard her cell phone

ring. At this late hour? Not good news. She fumbled a bit, found the iPhone in an inner pocket, and checked the screen. No call. She’d been mistaken, but she did notice that she’d missed two texts from her sister saying that she was canceling on the babysitting gig in the morning. Little Adele was running a fever of 103. “Poor baby,” Holly said, disappointed. Well, this way she could sleep in. As she was sliding the phone into the side pocket of her bag, she thought she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, a play of light and shadow that seemed out of place.

She blinked and saw that there was definitely someone in the lot. A dark figure lurking between the parked vehicles. The hairs on the back of her arms came to attention and her heart jump-started, pounding erratically before she decided it was probably a drunk guy taking a leak. Gross. But it happened. In fact, she’d seen it here more than once before.

She turned away and found her car, the locks opening as the signal from the key fob in her purse came into range. She nearly stumbled again and from the corner of her eye saw that the guy was moving, probably zipping up—well, she hoped he was pulling up his zipper—as she reached for the door handle.

“Holly?”

What? A woman’s voice?

She twisted her head and realized that “the guy” she’d first seen was really a woman who definitely had not been relieving herself. And she was walking briskly through the parked cars, her footsteps distinct against the asphalt. “You’re Holly Dennison.”

“Uh-huh.” Wasn’t the voice familiar? If so, why was she suddenly uneasy again? The parking lot instantly seemed darker and more isolated than it had moments before.

“I thought so.” The woman was drawing nearer, her face still shadowed, still unrecognizable. Dark hair. Or a hood?

But that voice. Holly definitely knew it, but couldn’t place the name and now the other woman was only a few feet away. Holly squinted, ignoring the little drip of fear, a warning, that rippled through her blood. “Do I know—?”

A loud motorcycle roared past the lot.

Holly jumped, her attention switched to the street.

In that split second, the woman in black pounced.

Bam!

Her body weight knocked Holly off her feet. Holly slammed against her car, her head cracking against the driver’s door, and then her body slithered to the ground.

Pain slammed through her brain.

Shit! What the hell?

She dropped her purse, her phone skittering out, the screen illuminating.

No! This couldn’t be happening! This stranger, this woman couldn’t be attacking her! She started to scream.

A gloved hand, a strong gloved hand, slammed across her mouth and muffled any sounds she could make as her attacker forced her onto her back and straddled her chest.

Oh. Dear. God.

Fear crystallized in her brain.

Blood froze in her veins.

This was happening! Holy crap. No!

Squirming wildly she clawed and bit and tried to scream, but her attempts were drunken and clumsy, her arms flailing, her blows landing in the air.

Help me! Oh, God, please let someone help me! Surely there were people on the street, someone who could see that she was being abducted. She screamed into the leather glove but heard only a muted mewl.

“Bitch,” the woman growled as she twisted her free hand into Holly’s hair, grabbing a thick clump, nearly pulling it out by the roots as she lifted Holly’s head from the pavement.

What?