My eyes shoot open in the darkness. I can’t see anything in the thick black except the dull glow of the alarm clock’s luminous hands. I don’t know what’s woken me but it was sudden. Now, I am wide-awake. Something is not right in the darkness. There’s someone in the room with me, I can feel it. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, but light is no longer spilling from the edges of the curtains. The gun is where I left it, tucked away in the safe, in the wardrobe. I would never get to it in time. I should have kept it out. Should have, would have, could have. I can’t hear anything. No movement. No sound but the muffled tuck tuck of the plastic clock. Then a rustle, a brush of fabric, in the right-hand corner. Oh shit, shit, shit. There is someone here. There’s someone in my room.
Adrenaline instantly fizzes through my system, through the other tiny heart inside me. Absolute fear. It takes every fiber of my being to stop myself from leaping up. I freeze. I realize that, whoever they are, they believe I’m asleep. That gives me time to think. To plan. Maybe if I don’t move they’ll leave. They’ll just take what they want and go. Except I’m not sleeping. It seems impossible they’d not sense the change in the air now, suddenly thick with terror. The soft rustling sound comes again.
What are they doing?
What should I do? Am I going to die, here, in a weekend-getaway hotel, alone? Is that the way you want to go, Erin?
Think.
I keep my breathing low, deep, as if I’m still asleep.
It’s him, it’s the man on the other end of the phone, it must be. They’ve found me.
Was it the last text I sent? The one with tomorrow’s meeting location? I think desperately about how that could have happened, but I don’t know how, my mind won’t focus. And does it matter? He’s tracked me down somehow. Oh God. I’m such an idiot.
There’s no way he will just take what he wants and leave me sleeping. I know this. I know this because what he wants isn’t here. It’s buried in the woods. He won’t just leave me. He’ll have to wake me up eventually. He’ll make me tell him where it is.
I’m going to die.
He’ll do it quietly, perhaps he’ll smother me with a pillow or hold me down in the bath. Something that looks accidental. Something that’ll raise no suspicions. As if he were never here.
My chest screams under the tension of controlling and slowing my breath. My fingers are itching to crawl through the dark to my phone charging on the bedside table. Sweat soaks my T-shirt under the heavy duck-down duvet. I need to think.
I don’t want to die.
The sound of a zip. I can’t ignore it. I can’t ignore this sound—it’s too loud. I let out a heavy sigh and turn in the bed. Disturbed but not awake. He pauses.
What the fuck is he unzipping? Think, think, think. Think!
I need to use the element of surprise; it’s all I’ve got. If I can surprise him. Hit him with something, something hard, just once, then I’ll have the upper hand. One good swing.
But what? A fucking pillow?
There’s a glass of water by the lamp. I could throw that?
And what, Erin? Get him a bit wet?
Okay, maybe not. The lamp?
I remember it’s a big baroque thing, metal with a marble base. Yes! If I grab and yank hard enough, the plug might pull out as I swing.
The noises are coming from over by the bathroom door now. Near my backpack. Suddenly my phone, sitting innocently on the bedside table, lights up in the darkness of the room. The rustling stops and both of us turn our eyes to the light. I catch a glimpse of the text in that split second. It’s Mark.
I know where you are. I’ll be—
But I don’t have time to read the rest. The man in my room knows I’m awake. It’s now or never. I squeeze my eyes shut, tense my palms against the mattress, and push myself up and over to the side table.
A sudden burst of movement races toward me. He’s running at me. I scrabble for the lamp and swing blindly toward the intruder with all my might, my full weight behind it.
I feel the tension and the pull of the plug coming away from the socket, followed by the dull thump of the marble base grazing flesh.
A guttural shout. He stumbles back, away from me. A curse.
“You fucking bitch.” The voice is low, filled with hate. But there’s something familiar about it. He comes at me again. In the darkness I can’t tell how close he is, or if he has a weapon. All I can do is swing again. Swing with all my strength. It connects. Marble on bone, a wet smacking sound.
He stumbles. I hear his labored breathing, low to the floor now; he’s on his knees.
I need light. I need to see what’s going on, to see him, to find out if he has a weapon. I sprint toward the bathroom door and fumble inside for the switch.
The cool bathroom light floods the room.
There he is. Crouched at the end of the bed, hand to head. Dark hair, black coat. He’s white, large, strong. I can’t see his face. Is there stubble? A beard?
The lamp still hangs in my hand, ready. A glimmering smear of blood across its base. He’s coming around now. He raises his face slowly to the light. I falter. It’s Patrick. The man from outside the prison. I wasn’t paranoid. He has been following me. And now I know, he’s definitely not SO15. He’s definitely not police. Blood runs from the fresh wound above his eye, streaming down his face, smeared in his hair; he swipes it away from his eyes, then looks up at me, blank, cold. There’s only one way this is going to end.
I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I think of all the mistakes I’ve made. I should have seen this coming. A huge wave of nausea breaks over me. I’m going to die. My heart thunders in my ears, my knees buckle.
And as I’m falling, he lurches toward me.
I lose consciousness.