Page 77 of Toxic

Connor, hands shaking and eyes welling with tears, immediately texted back an affirmative reply.

He glanced at the time on his phone and gasped. He had less than an hour.

But the good news was that if all went well he would have Miranda back with him in that time. He closed his eyes and sent up a fervent petition—let her be okay; let her come back to me. He would never take his daughter for granted again. He would celebrate her life every day.

He didn’t add that he didn’t know how he could continue living if something happened to her. He really didn’t think he could. He’d lost Steve and his home in a brutally short time. His daughter would simply be too much.

He grabbed up the rubber-banded stacks of bills, put them in the bag, and headed out.

Soon, this will all be over. He opened the door and then thought, both grimly and happily:one way or the other.

Chapter Thirty-Four

MIRANDA WATCHED HIMfrom behind the futon, searching for her. He was looking in cabinets, under the bed, upending the tiniest things, things which would be impossible for hiding. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he said under his breath, the words singsong.

Somehow, despite a driving headache that actually throbbed the color red and fear so great it shut almost everything down in her system, she had the advantage.

He doesn’t know where I am.

At least for the moment.

She needed to keep it that way until she could reclaim some of her strength, which had been sapped by the brutal blow to the back of her head. Even now, it felt as though her skull had been cracked open, the wound wet. It throbbed. She still couldn’t determine, in the houseboat’s grimy interior, what he had hit her with. Whatever it was, she knew one thing—he’d strike her with it again if given the chance.

And he’d make sure a second blow would be fatal.

The clock ticked down. The boat was small. There wasn’t much furniture. It wouldn’t be long, moments maybe, before he discovered where she was.

If only she didn’t have this pain! If only she had more time. If only someone would miraculously arrive on the scene to rescue her.

If only. If only…

It was all up to her now.

Peering through the shadows, she looked toward the kitchen counter, hoping to see knives or at least one knife. But the counter was bare.

It was both a relief and a curse that there were no knives—none that she could see anyway. It meant she wouldn’t be able to pack that particular weapon in her arsenal. Arsenal? Ha! The good news was that he didn’t have the advantage of a knife either. Miranda shuddered at the thought of a knife penetrating her anyway.

As far as she knew, he didn’t have a gun.

He was dressed in a thin T-shirt and shorts, feet bare.

One option was that she could simply stand, reveal herself, and try to take him on.

She was young. Strong. Two semesters ago, she’d taken a women’s self-defense course at a community center in Wallingford. She’d forgotten most of what she’d learned, but assumed adrenaline and muscle memory might be her friends, returning when desperately needed.

It sounded logical, but not logical enough to reassure, to allay her terror.

He drew near and started rounding the edge of the futon.

“I know where you are. Just make it easy on yourself. Come out and we can talk. Promise not to hurt you.”

If you know where I am, why are you trying to coax me out?

She rolled beneath the futon, curling into a fetal position to make herself as small as possible. The floor under here was even more filthy, with dust bunnies so large Miranda wondered if they could double as small tumbleweeds.

She prayed she wouldn’t sneeze.

And then—all at once—his gaze was upon her. His eyes shocked all fear, reason, and even thought out of her. She simply went numb, uncurling.

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