Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Zeroing in on his crotch, she kicked upward.

Hard as she could.

Her boot connected with soft tissue.

“Oooooh!” She nailed him directly in the groin and he doubled over. “Shit!” He dragged in his breath so that it whistled through his teeth. “You . . . fuckin’ . . . bitch!”

Quickly, while he was disabled, she scrambled backward, trying to get to her feet, bumping a shoulder into the edge of the couch, her mind still thick from the blow to her head. Where the hell was Trace? she thought wildly as she forced herself upright and sprang through the archway to the kitchen. She had to get away. Find Trace! Locate Eli! Oh dear God, had this monster already killed them both?

Her attacker was sputtering, muttering crazy invectives, moving! She heard his footsteps as he gathered himself.

“. . . son of a fuckin’ bitch . . . I’ll make you pay . . .”

Trace’s phone was on the kitchen counter ... somewhere in the dark . . . if she could just get there ... snag it and run out into the night, she might have a chance! She could call 9-1-1, or Alvarez or . . . Her head still thundered, her mind was still thick, her face ached, but she lunged forward.

Click!

The distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked echoed through her brain.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice rough. “Not after all the years of waiting.”

The phone was less than three feet away!

She felt the cold barrel of the rifle pressing against her back.

“Move and I’ll pull the trigger,” he promised.

She froze. Heard the moan of the storm outside. Wondered what her chances were. There were knives here ... sharp, deadly blades ... If she could just find them in the dark . . .

“A wound here—” The nose of the weapon swirled against her spine, in the small of her back, just over her buttocks, “will take a while to bleed out. And you’ll feel it, the life oozing from you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

But there wasn’t a roaring blast that echoed through the house. No searing pain cutting through her flesh.

Why didn’t he pull the damned trigger?

Because he wants to make it look like an accident. Just like the others. A gunshot wound to the back can only mean homicide. So, think, Kacey. You’re in the kitchen! The knives are in the block at the stove . . .

“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, as if he could read her mind. “If I have to, I’ll blow your sweet ass to hell and back.”

“Then why don’t you just—”

BAM!

Pain exploded through her brain and she crumpled to the floor.

CHAPTER 36

Trace held fast to his pitchfork. His heart was hammering, his muscles tight as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The smell of dung and urine filled his nostrils. The lights had gone out while he’d still been in the barn, still wrapping the damned pipe. He’d finished the job though it had taken longer than anticipated, then headed to the stable.

He’d noticed the house was dark, getting colder by the minute and he felt the urge to hurry, to get back to Kacey and Eli. He’d hoped she would have drawn the water and brought the boy downstairs, near the fire for warmth.

Then he’d stepped into the stable and felt something was wrong.

More than the damned electricity being out, or the worry of frozen pipes.

No, this was a danger within.