Chelsea slashes away, a crazed gleam in her eyes, her glasses low on her nose. The knife grazes my shoulder as I scramble backward, desperate to put as much space between us as possible. Sharp pain stings where the blade has cut me, but there’s no time to slow down.
I slide on the crumbles of dirt on the living room floor and dodge more of Chelsea’s maniacal jerks of the knife.
But I’m backing up while she’s charging toward me, so I don’t see what’s behind us. We collide with the coffee table as it hits the back of my knees and I fall over the side of it. Chelsea doesn’t slow her assault and goes sailing forward over it, crashing halfway down on the glass portion.
My shoulder’s bleeding, my vision’s swimming, and every movement feels like it takes twice as much effort, like I’m wading through mud.
I stagger to my feet and don’t bother to go on the offensive. Instead, I make a run for it, dashing toward the door.
Behind me, her voice follows, along with laughter that’s been warped by mania. It’s a sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard: shrill, high-pitched, and tremulous. The kind of laugh you’d hear from someone losing their grip on reality.
“What are you running for, my dear?” she calls, almost singsong, her words floating through the dark. “Don’t you want to stay and finish what we’ve started, Amerie?”
I don’t bother answering her or her shrill, echoing cackle. I rush from the living room into the hall, cutting straight across for the staircase.
My intuition tells me I’ll find Declan and the kids upstairs. She must’ve put them somewhere.
…done something to them.
The thought sends a cold, paralyzing chill down my spine.
I make it up the first few steps when I hear the pounding footsteps from below. The wood creaks under her as she skips her way up and then reaches for a fistful of my hair.
“If you won’t finish this, I will!” she shrieks, grinning devilishly. She brandishes the knife as she yanks the fistful of my hair and jerks my head back.
“Let go of me, you crazy bitch!” I scream, twisting against her hold.
I wrench my hand up and grab for her wrist. The same one that has the knife. My fingers dig into her clammy skin, twisting her arm until she’s crying out in pain and I’ve forced the knife out of her grasp.
It tumbles free, arcing through the air, landing at the foot of the stairs below. Her face goes slack with shock. Mine clenches with rage.
Without thinking, I slam my fist straight into her face.
The blow is painful for us both; my knuckles collide with her glasses, which cracks them open and shatters her glasses.
She lets out a choked grunt as her body reels backward. The heel of her foot teeters on the edge of a stair as she’s about to tip over.
But she refuses to go alone, clamping her hand down on my arm and pulling me with her.
We tumble together, limbs entangled, a mess of rage and fear and flailing limbs crashing down the stairs. My back hits a step, then another. I can’t breathe or see as everything blurs and the air is knocked out of my lungs.
Chelsea’s knee collides with my chin; my elbow connects with something of hers that crunches. The air fills with the sound of flesh and bone against wood, of grunts and gasps and the brutal, uncontrollable chaos of two bodies being thrown against gravity.
By the time we hit the bottom, I don’t even know which way is up. All I can do is gasp through the pain and hope to god I can move before she does.
Seconds drag like hours as I try to lift myself off the floor, my entire body throbbing from the fall. My arms shake under me as I push up on my elbows and manage to get one knee beneath me before collapsing again with a pained gasp.
Across from me, Chelsea groans, coughing hard as she rolls onto her side. She’s sporting a split lip, bruising around her eyes, and a nose that drips blood.
I spot the knife, gleaming under the faint moonlight that streaks into hall, only a few feet from where I landed.
Everything sharpens with focus. I drag myself forward, elbow over elbow like I’m crawling through a battlefield, my eyes fixed on the blade and nothing else. It feels like it takes years to cover the distance, every inch a war. Just as I stretch my fingers out toward the handle, Chelsea’s latching onto my ankle to yank me back.
“No!” I scream, kicking at her, trying to shake her loose. But she climbs over me like a damn demon, hair hanging in her face and breath trembling. We grapple on the floor, rolling across the hardwood, grunting and clawing at each other. My hands are fisted her hair. Her knee jabs at my ribs.
I slam my elbow into her face and she lets out a gasp. Seizing the opening, I scramble forward on my hands and knees, fingers fumbling for the knife.
Instead of trying to stop me a second time, Chelsea sets off toward the kitchen. She’s crouched low, half bent over as she hobbles away. Probably to grab another knife to defend herself.
