Page 40 of The Woman on the Jury

If I could get his hand off of my mouth, I could scream. If I screamed, I had to believe that someone would come for me. Or at the very least call the police.

Would that save me, though?

Would there be enough time?

The hand slid from my neck, slipping lower instead.

“You’re gonna wish you didn’t fuck up that trial,” he said, hand grabbing the top of my tank top, and yanking down.

Something unfroze in me right then.

I still could only see shadows.

But those eyes.

I could see those eyes.

I pulled my hands from his wrist, curled my fingers, and threw my hands forward, thumbs going for those whites.

The howl that escaped him let me know I’d struck true.

Using his shock and pain to my advantage, I yanked my legs out from under his knees, sending his body toppling to the floor.

I rushed off the bed, yanking my tank top back up as I started to move across my apartment, hopes on the fire escape.

I made it three steps before my ankles were grabbed and pulled hard enough to send me falling forward. There was barely enough time to throw out my arms to catch my fall.

The wind knocked out of me, leaving me gasping as panic rose in my system when I couldn’t catch my breath.

A hand reached out, grabbing my ankle again, this time pulling until he threw me over onto my back.

My knees pulled up automatically, creating a barrier as I tried to crawl backward.

“Fucking bitch,” he hissed again, bending forward toward me.

It was pure instinct that had me throwing out my legs, my feet catching him in the midsection, sending him stumbling back into the table under the windows.

I didn’t waste even a second, scrambling up, and rushing toward the window, then yanking it open.

When I saw shadows in the alley below.

It could have been anyone. Employees from another business. Addicts looking for a place to get high. Even homeless seeking shelter from the wind the backs of all the buildings provided.

But something inside of me told me it was none of those possibilities.

It was the other brothers.

Waiting to come up and take their turns with me.

Just as I was about to turn to run toward the door instead, a hand grabbed the back of my neck, fingers digging in, pulling my head backward, then violently slamming it forward.

My forehead slammed into the window with enough intensity to crack the single pane of glass.

The pain was a jackhammer through my skull, making my eyes tear and my vision go in and out for a moment.

It was sheer force of will that had me twisting under his arm, wrenching away from him, and stumbling into my kitchen, reaching—half-blinded with my pain—toward one of my drawers.

I’d been seeking a knife.

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