Page 96 of That's Not My Name

Drew claws at Wayne’s grip as his face turns red. Wayne shifts to put his knee on Drew’s chest and presses down until his ribs can’t expand.

He’s trying to kill him faster.

No, no, no…

Drew’s eyes shift to me in panic. I frantically search for anything that will help him, but Wayne was careful in his placement of the cot, the length of the chain. There’s nothing in this corner of the room.

Except the clippers.

I spot them on the floor, half under the cot, and grab them. Drew makes a gurgling sound. He tosses his head from side to side, and I slam the clippers against the back of Wayne’s neck and he shouts in pain. Drew’s not done yet either. His hand curls into a fist and he levels a shot straight into the bottom of Wayne’s rib cage.

Wayne’s breath comes out in a wheeze. The blows rock him off-balance, and Drew gasps in a breath. He plants his feet on Wayne’s chest and kicks out.

Wayne goes downhard. He hits his back on the corner of the workbench, knocking one of the cardboard boxes off the edge, and they both land between me and the door. The box scatters its contents all over him, and my legs. He grabs for my ankle, and I scramble back.

“Mary,” he groans.

I scream and grab the first heavy thing I can find. I hurl it at him with all my strength and something boxy and black hits him straight in the temple and rolls toward the bench.

Wayne Boone goes very still.

Drew rolls to his side, and tries to sit up, still gasping. He holds out a hand and I grab it. We pull each other to our feet and back away from Wayne until the chain pulls tight. I lunge for the clippers, clamp them down on the metal, and twist, pulling at the handcuffs with all the strength in my leg until…snap.

The smaller chain breaks, and my ankle jerks free.

Wayne still doesn’t move. I look past him and see what I threw.

“Is that a car battery?” Drew whispers, his voice hoarse and rough from the damage Wayne did to his neck.

“Yup.” I push his shoulder, toward the bottom of the stairs. “Go. Upstairs.”

He points to the door that leads outside.

“Yeah fucking right. I’m not stepping over him, are you?”

“Good point.”

I grab his arm and we clamber over the cot and up the stairs. I’m only halfway up when I feel Drew’s arm rip from my hand.

Wayne—face red, bloodstained, and furious—yanks Drew backby his sweatshirt. I watch him fall in slow motion. His shoulders hit the cot. It collapses under his weight, and the base of his head cracks against the dirt floor.

His eyes go unfocused.

Wayne stomps on him with the heel of his boot.

“No!”

Drew doesn’t move.

Wayne looks up at me, like a feral animal. The battery doubled the size of the gash in the side of his face, sending rivers of blood down his chin and across his neck. His chest heaves, and his hands ball at his sides. Fists he’ll probably use to beat me to death.

I lock eyes with him—and run.

“You little bitch,” he screams, bounding after me.

I have three steps to go when my ankle’s snatched out from under me. I drop, and my chin hits the corner of a stair. I feel blood pooling between my teeth, and all I taste is metal. The room spins, and I struggle to right myself.

Wayne flips me over. His fingers close around my throat. But I’m not fucking around.

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