Page 11 of Come For Me
“Olivia?”
Fear constricted her lungs, cutting off the air she needed so desperately, but she managed to squeeze out, “Hallway’s clear.”
The woman murmured an agreement but stayed silent otherwise, seeming to sense the tension of the moment. Olivia eased the kitchen door almost closed, then scooted down the hall in the opposite direction from the office.
There were two emergency-exit staircases, one in the lobby beyond the elevators, and one at the end of this hall. She tried to make herself walk normally to the door instead of creeping like she was, in reality, one of those bubbleheaded horror-movie heroines, but she couldn’t help bending over slightly, if only to try to see the stairway door sooner. Every step seemed to take forever. Every breath strained in her lungs. Every second—
The door came into view. Olivia’s breath rushed out in relief, her steps speeding up to a trot as she rushed forward.
The metal of the push bar seemed ice-cold against her panic-heated skin. She savored the feel as she pressed as quietly as she could to open the door. The bar slid inward, but…
Nothing.
Had they locked the staircase door? Was it even lockable? Surely that would take someone from maintenance. No one in their office that she knew of had a key to the staircase doors.
“It won’t open!”
“Olivia—”
The dispatcher’s words were submerged beneath Olivia’s panic. Again and again she tried to open the door, each time with the same result. A whimper escaped. “No no no no no!”
A loud whistle in her ear woke her up to the fact that she was making far too much noise. She jerked her hand off the useless bar.
“It’s all right, Olivia. Listen to me. Go back—”
A muffled curse at the opposite end of the hall snapped her attention away from the phone.
Shit. Get yourself together, Livie!
It was Dain’s voice in her head. Dain, who would be disappointed if she let him down by getting herself captured. Dain, who would be devastated, left alone if anything happened to her.
She was already moving as she whispered, “Someone’s coming.”
“Get in the kitchen, Olivia. Do it now.”
She didn’t have the air to tell the woman she was obeying. The fifteen steps between the stair door and the kitchen stretched like a chasm she would never be able to cross in time, but she did. She crossed it, opened and closed the door gently, noiselessly, with extra care, then slid into the tiny space beside the fridge. Only then did a full breath fill her lungs. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”
“That’s good. You’re okay. Stay on the line with me.”
The whoosh of air pressure as the door opened echoed through the still room. Olivia went rigid. The dispatcher spoke reassurances in her ear, the sound a distraction she couldn’t afford right now. Without responding, she pulled the cell away and clicked End. Slid the phone into her pocket. Exchanged it for the first utensil that came to hand: a fork.
The door hinges creaked lightly.
Oh God. Dain!
Olivia closed her eyes, refusing even to breathe as the moments stretched out like taffy. Memories of her childhood filled her head, playing hide-and-seek with her sister and brother in their old house, squatting in the back of the dark closet with her eyes shut—because if she couldn’t see someone, they couldn’t see her, right? But squeezing her eyelids together couldn’t keep out the sound of that first cautious footstep crossing the linoleum floor.
Her fist tightened on the fork until the edges dug painfully into her palm as she waited. Prayed.
Could she crawl into the space behind the fridge? Her brain said no, but her body shifted instinctively, seeking refuge in the too-small crack at her side. Her foot bumped the canister of Lysol, knocking it over, sending a loud clatter through the room.
Heavy steps rushed for her position, and then everything slowed to a crawl.
Olivia bent down. The scrambling fingers of her empty hand found and gripped a cool metal cylinder.
A shadow stretched along the floor in front of her. Big, so big. She raised the Lysol high.
A tall, heavy man, swarthy, with a ragged beard and mustache covering the broad lines of his lower face, rounded the refrigerator. His black eyes held a mean light as they fell on her hiding place. He wore nice clothes—business casual, she thought a bit hysterically—but they couldn’t disguise his depravity; it was in his scent, in the faint whiff of body odor that filled her nose, the sharp smell of testosterone and lust that rose from the crisp button-down shirt and pants.
