Page 72 of Torched Spades
“Stay away from Johnny Malone,” my attacker growls seconds before dropping to his knees and straddling my waist.
I grew up as a cop’s daughter. My father never shielded me from the dangers of the world. In fact, he insisted I learn to defend myself against it. While other little girls were learning to hit home runs on a softball field and practicing ballet, I was learning to hit a target from ten yards away and taking Krav Maga classes.
That’s why when the first closed-fisted punch hits my cheek, I don’t break apart. I don’t melt into the concrete, becoming a hollow vessel for whatever is coming next.
I fight back.
Unlike my mother, I’m not departing this world without leaving marks.
For every hit, I scratch. For every slap, I claw. I tear at the black shirt he has on, buttons scattering all around me as he curses and roars.
“Fucking bitch!”
There’s a half a second between his hand rising and his fist falling when time suspends. A sliver of a moment when the ripped eyehole of his black ski mask widens, and I catch a glimpse of his bright red hairline. Then my blurry gaze drops to his open shirt where the tattoo of a knife pierced rose imprints in my mind.
Then it’s all gone as my chin snaps to the side and the edges of my vision begin to dim. At that moment, I don’t think about dying. There’s only one thought in my head.
Bullets and blades.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a door slam and the offbeat patter of men’s dress shoes. “Hey, you! What are you doing? Get away from her!”
The man above me curses under his breath, then the pressure on my chest releases, and I realize I’m not dead.
I’m alone.
“Miss,” a gentle voice calls out, “are you okay?”
I don’t give him an answer because I don’t have one.
“Miss, can you tell me your name?”
“Becca,” I slur.
“Shit, okay. I got this. What can I do to help?” I hear him pacing a circle around me, then all movement stops. “I’ll call an ambulance. That’s what I’ll do. You just hang on, Becca.”
“No!” It’s the first spark of emotion I’ve had since my first cry for help.
“What do you mean, no? Miss, you’re bleeding all over the garage. You need medical attention.”
No.Hospitals are required by law to report assaults. Those reports become public record, accessible by every member of the police department. My father already thinks Johnny hit me once. If he gets wind of this, he’ll have him locked up by midnight.
I can’t go to the hospital.
I can’t call Johnny. He doesn’t give a fuck about breaking the law, and I have no doubts he’d scour every back alley in Providence searching for this guy. I refuse to be the reason he ruins his probation.
That only leaves one person.
“Jack,” I choke out, the floor starting to spin. “Call Detective Jack Ledger at the Providence PD.”
* * *
The red footprints are back.
I’m staring down at the shower floor, and for the first time in twenty-two years, the water isn’t running clear. Crimson pools between my toes, my feet still stained dark red after half an hour of scrubbing.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper. “I failed again.”
“Becca?” Jack calls from the doorway. “You’ve been in there a long time. You okay?”
