Page 65 of 4th Silence
His gaze darts to the half-exposed purse. I recognize the moment fear supersedes logic. His mask slips farther. Panic wins. He springs forward with shocking speed, driving his shoulder into my sternum. The impact sends me crashing against Meg, who yelps as we slam to the ground.
“Stop!” I yell.
“Charlie!” Meg pushes me off her. “Get the purse!”
Alex is already at the table, snatching up the Sherman and clutching it against his chest like it contains his very survival. It bulges, and I’m certain we’ve found the murder weapon.
I get to my feet. “Give me the purse, Alex.”
He turns for the exit. I grab the back of his shirt.
He twists away, strong-arming me and sending me crashing into the table. “You’re not ruining my life!”
Meg jets forward to block his escape. “This isn’t helping your case, Alex. If you’re innocent?—”
“Innocent?” He gives a strangled laugh, his eyes wild as he stalks toward Meg and the exit she’s barring. His claustrophobia is creating panic. “You don’t know anything. You don’t understand what’s at stake. Get out of my way!”
He tries to shove Meg aside. She grabs his arm, and they spin awkwardly, knocking into a display case. She grunts but doesn’t let go.
“The claustrophobia isn’t real,” I yell at him, grabbing for the purse. “It’s guilt closing in on you!”
A primal sound tears from his throat. He dances away. Meg jumps up, out of breath. “Charlie, I’ve got?—”
Alex’s elbow connects with her chin, sending her stumbling into a sofa. She somersaults over it.
I grip his collar, pinning him against the wall. His eyes are unfocused, his pupils dilated with fear.
“Can’t breathe,” he gasps, clawing at my hands. “Can’t?—”
The former hockey player knows how to deliver a body check. His knee drives upward, missing my groin but catching my thigh. Hard.
I falter, losing my grip. He shoves me, sending me into a shelving unit. The unit collapses under me, biting into my spine. Glass shatters. Pain slices across my neck and hands. My ankle twists painfully.
Meg screams my name. She starts toward me, then veers, reaching for him instead as he dashes for the door.
He swings the purse in an arc, catching her in the temple. She falls.
And doesn’t get up.
I push up from the broken display. Blood warms the silk of my blouse. I must have bitten my lip, too. The taste of copper fills my mouth. My ankle throbs. “You can’t escape this, Alex. JJ knows. He’s on his way.”
The panic drains from his face, replaced by ice-cold hate. The dread of what comes next, what we’ve uncovered, burns away his claustrophobia, leaving only adrenaline.
He backs out of the room, the purse still clutched to his chest. Before I can give chase with my wobbly ankle, the door slams shut with the finality of a tomb.
And, of course, we don’t know the code.
18
Meg
* * *
Pain explodes at my temple, and I hit the floor hard. My head’s spinning like one of those tilt-a-whirl rides I used to love at the county fair and my vision is fuzzy. A handbag didn’t do that—it was whatever was inside it.
Flat on my back, I blink up at the ceiling. It has a weird fuzziness to it, so I blink a few more times, trying to clear the fog.
“Meg!”
