Page 69 of Every Step She Takes
He’s not a cop, Lucy. This is the important part. You are pinned to the wall by a man who is not a police officer.
I can’t think straight. Memories surge, and all my energy goes to holding the dam against them.
Dark alley. Footsteps behind me. Hands slamming me into the wall.
This is not that. Focus on this.
“I-I have money,” I say. “A few hundred in my wallet–”
“I think the price of freedom is more than a few hundred dollars, Lucy. I think it’s more than you can afford to pay. Do you have any idea how much you’re worth right now? There’s someone who’ll pay very well to–”
He whispers the rest against my ear, but I don’t catch it. It’s like a nightmare where you’re struggling to hear what someone’s saying because you know it’s critically important, but all you hear is a buzz of words. He’s leaning too close, his words garbled.
“Wh-what?” I say.
He pulls back and something presses against my spine. A gun, I think at first. But the moment it presses harder, I know exactly what it is. I remember.
The cold tip of a knife digging in.
Dark alley. Footsteps behind me. Hands slamming me to the wall. Then a knife pressed to my throat as I stare into the eyes of my attacker, a woman my own age, her breath thick with booze.
I-I –I began.You were at one of my tables.
And I didn’t leave a tip, she said.I decided to save that for later. Do you want it now, Lucy Callahan?
My throat closes, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a low whimper as my insides convulse.
Here’s the tip,she said, pressing the knife against my throat.You can’t get away with what you did. You think you did. You think you got off scot-free after trying to ruin Colt’s career, destroy his marriage. You think no one cares. But his fans do. I have been looking for you a very long time, Lucy Callahan. With a message from Colt’s true fans.
The knife pulls away from my throat, and there is one shuddering moment of relief before I see her arm swing back, the knife slashing–
I let out a noise. I feel it bubbling up, an animal cry, and then I see the brick wall in front of me and shadowy daylight all around as I’m flung back to the present, and whatever noise I make, it is enough to startle my attacker.
I shove back from the wall as hard as I can, slamming into him. I hit him hard, and then I run. My brain mercifully clicks on, telling me that if he only has a knife, my best bet is to run.
What it fails to remind me of, though, is that the delivery truck blocks the alley. I don’t stop running. I race forward, and then I hit the ground in a dive and roll under the truck.
I crawl as fast as I can, ignoring the pain shooting up from my skinned palms.Move, just move!Behind me, my attacker’s footfalls thunder down the alley. A thump, as if he’s dropping to his knees to crawl after me. Then a door behind him creaks open.
“Hey!” a voice calls. “Asshole! What the hell are you doing with my truck?”
I send up a prayer of thanks for the delivery man as I scramble out from under the truck. Then I run.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I run as if I’m back in elementary school, convinced this will be the year I’ll take first in the hundred-yard sprint. I never placed higher than fifth, and even that was pure effort and zero skill. I find that old willpower now as I sprint down the lane.
I turn the corner onto the street… clogged with traffic and pedestrians, and I’m a woman running for her life. Someone shouts. Car tires squeal. No one stops me, though. No one tries.
I run until I see an alley. I veer into it, duck behind a bin, wobble for a moment, and then double over and puke. I keep retching until nothing remains. Then I stand there, one hand braced against the brick.
At first, I think my free hand is clutching my stomach. Then I look down to see it clamped against the spot where the knife went in ten years ago. My breath comes fast, as if I’m back there, newly stabbed, struggling to breathe, my lung nicked by the knife.
I’m going to die.
The thought flashes, and even in the riptide pull of that memory, I know it’s no longer true, but I still feel it. I am in that moment, stabbed in an alley, thinking I’m going to die. Back then, what flashed before my eyes wasn’t a collage of my life. It was regret. A parade of regrets, starting with “Why the hell didn’t I see this coming?”
Well, for starters, in a sane world, crazed movie-star fans don’t knife people for kissing their idol.
