Page 11 of She Gives Love a Bad Name

I dart down the hallway toward the main entrance. He’s nearly reached me when I fumble for the door. This time, the blade catches my left shoulder. I slam into the wall and grab the iron coatrack with both hands, jerking it down between us. It catches the back of the murderer’s head and he swears beneath the black ski mask.

Seizing my opportunity, I wrench open the door and run out into the night. Just up the street, there’s a dark passageway between the houses. I race toward it, unsure of the assailant’s whereabouts.

I don’t care. At this point, I just want to get away. Fast.

When I reach the opening, I slide between the brick and the iron grates, stepping into a hidden garden behind the buildings. I weave through the overgrown vegetation, half hoping the owner will see me and call the cops. Anything to deter the man chasing me. I find a quiet corner where another gate lets me out on the next street.

I silently retreat through the darkness of the city, letting the shadows conceal me from the evil lurking in the distance. My heart races with every step, and I jump at every sound.

Glancing over my shoulder, I take comfort in the fact there’s no one behind me. He’d be crazy to chase me through the streets of the city.

I manage about ten blocks before the adrenaline wears off and the blood loss hits me. Feeling weak, I lean against the nearest building, still keeping to the shadows. Blood seeps between my fingertips as I try to staunch it. Fuck.

I can’t go to the hospital. Too many questions. The cops will find me. They’ll think I did this. With my record, they’ll lock me away and throw the key into the Hudson. I’ll be screwed.

That’s what I get for trying to go legit. Damn it.

The Black Penny. The words float into my mind between spasms of pain. Detective Richards told me to go there if I needed him. The bartender would contact him.

I don’t have a choice. No hospital. I can’t go home to embroil my innocent roommates in my fucking mess. No. He’s my only hope. If I can convince him of the truth, then he can keep the cops off my ass.

The Irish pub is on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not far. If I can make it, the detective will help me.

It’s either that or bleed out on the streets.

Shit.

I drag myself to the pub. I can’t go in the front door like this, so I sneak down the side of the building and bang on an unmarked door. My hand slides down the metal, my legs giving out. Exhaustion threatens to drag me under as adrenaline wears off.

The door opens and casts a halo of light on me, rendering me blind for a moment. My eyes adjust, and I’m staring at a tall man. He looks a lot like the detective, but I know it’s not him when I see his missing hand. His scowl softens when he sees my state and the blood on my hands.

“Detective...Richards.” My voice is weak. I lick my lips.

“Damn it.” The man reaches down and pulls me inside. “Wait here.”

He dashes up the stairs, and when he reaches the next floor, he shouts, “Grant!”

The sound of pounding and raised voices echoes through my head as I succumb to the darkness.

---