Page 65 of The Woman in the Garage

I pulled and pulled, moving forward, half dragging him with me.

Sensing my plan, he yanked so hard on my hair that I went down on my knees, hot bursts of pain in my knees.

But, blessedly, the position change had him letting go of my hair.

I searched for any means of self-defense.

But save for the magazines that were older than I was, there was nothing. I was pretty sure they’d cause a mean paper cut. If a kick to the nuts didn’t take this guy down, a magazine to the face wasn’t going to do it either.

I had to get away from him.

I was further away from the front door then.

But closer to the bathroom.

Decision made, I flew at it.

He was only half a step behind me, but I wasn’t going to let that slow me down.

I rushed inside the open door, grabbing it and shoving it closed, catching him in the middle of the arm.

There was another roar from my attacker, but his hand was trying to claw at me still. So I pressed my whole body weight into the door, getting another howl of pain.

But he snatched his arm out.

I shoved my weight into the door again as my hand fumbled for the lock.

I wanted to stay there, pressing my weight into the door, but I rushed over toward the toilet, ripping off the toilet lid, finding something comforting about its solid weight, knowing how much damage it could do if I swung it with enough purpose.

With that in my arms, I lowered myself onto the floor, back pressed against the door, legs spread out to push against the wall, prepared for him to try to push the door open.

But the slams never came.

All there was—save for the rush of blood in my ears and my own labored breathing—was silence.

No breathing, no footsteps, nothing.

I couldn’t say how long I sat there. But as my breathing and heartbeat slowly but surely evened out, all the various aches and pains came back to me, intensified by the lack of adrenaline surging through me.

Pain seemed to ping from one location to the next, a sharp stabbing here, a dull ache there, a demanding throbbing in my nose, and a percussive beating in my temple.

Objectively, I knew I needed to move. To get up. To leave the relative safety of the bathroom. Get to a phone. Call for help.

But I couldn’t bring myself to take the chance that my attacker was still out there, waiting for me.

So I sat there, counting slowly to sixty over and over, counting on all of my fingers. Once. Twice. Three times.

Thirty minutes.

I couldn’t sit there forever.

I had to force myself to get up.

As silently as I could, I got to my feet; I leaned against the door, listening.

Then, hearing nothing at all, I slowly slid the lock, cracked the door, leaned out.

My eyes were better adjusted to the dark, so I could more easily see out. And there was nothing. No one.

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