Page 56 of The Woman in the Hollow
Standing behind the body I’d been trying to snap a picture of.
When I’d run, I must have dropped my phone.
What was wrong with me?
I kept inching forward, wincing when my steps crunched on the gravel.
I cursed the crew from the night before for being so thorough in putting everything away when they were done. No pitchforks or shovels were sitting out for me to grab and use as a weapon.
Taking slow, deep breaths, I glanced through the windows of the shop, looking for anyone possibly hiding out.
I moved toward the corner, ready to make my way to the highway where the occasional car sped by.
I didn’t hear a crunch, a breath, the air move around me.
But I felt the hand slap down over my mouth, felt the arm anchor around my midsection, squeezing until the pressure made my air catch in my lungs.
I tried to kick back, but I was lifted off my feet, leaving me pedaling at the air, unable to break away.
My hands moved out, fingers curling into claws, and raking my fingers down the backs of his hands, his arms.
“Fuck,” he snarled, his breath hot on my ear.
Satisfied that I was causing pain, I dug harder, feeling the hot, sticky sensation of his blood coating my fingertips.
“You’re gonna pay for that.”
Not if I had anything to say about it.
I wiggled and writhed, throwing my weight in every direction. The more he struggled, the more I jerked around.
And then, with my belly dropping, I felt us both falling backward.
There was just a second to brace for the impact.
We crashed hard. If I had any air left in my lungs, it would have whooshed out of me. I did get the satisfaction of hearing all the air escape my attacker, though, as he not only fell on his back, but had my weight crashing into him as well.
His hands released me involuntarily.
I was ready for it, rolling onto all fours, pushing up, and starting at a dead run.
My lungs were greedy for air. I sucked in quick, deep breaths as I forced my legs to charge forward.
I made a beeline for the greenhouse, knowing it wouldn’t be locked because there was nothing worth stealing in the off-season.
But there might be shovels, plant spikes, even a pair of scissors.
Something, anything for me to use to defend myself.
I bolted past rows of dead sunflowers, their giant heads bent over from the weight of the seeds.
I could hear the pound of feet behind me, maybe gaining on me.
I cursed my shorter legs as my hand reached for the door of the greenhouse, yanking it open.
I paused only to lock the door. Silly, maybe. But if it even gave me five seconds to search for a weapon, it was worth it.
The inside of the greenhouse was a disaster. Old dirt—so rich it was almost black—was scattered all over the floor. And thanks to an open window that let in moisture, the dirt was wet and slippery under my feet.
