Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page

Prologue

January 25, Midnight

Four Years Earlier

Nashville, Tennessee

Leah never slept deeply. Her brain, always on alert, skimmed just below consciousness, waiting for him to return. Not a matter of if he’d strike. A matter of when.

When floorboards creaked and a cold wind whispered in the shifting shadows of her first-floor apartment, Leah bolted up in bed. Gripping the sheets, heart slamming, she reached for her phone on the nightstand and waited, her thumb poised over the emergency 9-1-1 speed dial. Seconds passed. Was this another false alarm? Another nightmare? Or had her estranged husband finally come to kill her as he’d promised?

Adrenaline surged and rushed through sinew and bone, pricking the underside of her skin as she listened and waited.

The temptation to call the cops pulled, beckoned, screamed. But she’d cried wolf too often. Too many false alarms had been sounded. The last annoyed officer, his voice rough with frustration, had told her to count to ten before she called again.

“One. Two. Three.” Her breathing quick and shallow, she listened, expecting footsteps, but hearing only silence and the thud, thud, thud of her heart.

God, she was so tired. She needed sleep. Freedom. Peace. She needed her life back.

During the day, Philip was always there, standing and watching. He sent her flowers. Called her cell at all hours. Left scrawled messages under her windshield wipers. You can’t escape. I own you. Months of his relentless pursuit had stretched frayed nerves to breaking. During the day, she jumped at every creak, bump, and footfall, and at night, terrors jerked her from sleep, leaving her fully awake, tension gripping her chest and shallow breathing chasing a racing heart.

Holding her breath, she listened as she stared at her locked bedroom door. Again, she heard nothing save for the hum of the furnace.

“Four. Five. Six.”

She scrambled for a logical reason to explain this latest scare. It was Tuesday. That meant her roommate, Greta, was working the late shift at the bar. Greta closed on Tuesdays. How many times had Leah awoken screaming when Greta had returned home late? Poor, normal Greta, grad student and bartender, now moved slowly and quietly on Tuesday nights, fearful any sound would send her roommate into hysterics.

Leah glanced at the clock. Midnight. Too early for Greta. She listened, heartbeat still jackhammering. Thank God, no more sounds. Had this been another dream? Another false alarm? Yes. Maybe. “Seven. Eight. Nine.”

Slowly, she lowered to her pillow, clutching the phone to her chest, eyes wide open, staring at the swathe of shadows slicing across the ceiling. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The day she’d finally fled her marriage had begun as it always did. Fights, a barrage of questions, her promising to come home as soon as she got off work. But that morning, she’d been at her desk when a coworker had asked her about the bruises on her arm. She’d lied of course, but this time, the words hadn’t tumbled freely. Instead, they soured on her tongue. Sickened, she’d asked for the afternoon off. No matter how much she’d hoped, his contrition always faded and his temper flared, quick and hot, scorching I’m sorry to ash.

She had no plan when she’d returned to their apartment and then quickly cramming clothes into three green trash bags. Take only what you need. Get the hell out of here fast. The words slammed as hard as his fists.

When she’d twisted off her wedding band and laid it on the kitchen counter, it was exactly three o’clock in the afternoon, just thirty minutes before his shift ended. She’d dragged the bags into the hallway, and when the apartment door slammed behind her, she’d actually felt free. It’s over. It’s over.

But it wasn’t.

Philip had called her cell seconds after five that same day. Guilt had prompted her to take that first call as she’d sat in the shabby motel room, surrounded by her life in trash bags. He’d begged her to return. I love you. I need you. It will never happen again.

Of course he was sorry. He was always sorry.

He’d sent flowers. Called. Waited outside her office. No matter where she looked, he was there. Please come back to me. I love you so much.

Floorboards creaked in her closet, and she bolted back up, clutching her hand to her mouth, the pulse drumming under her fingertips. This time, logic couldn’t silence the alarm bells, which clanged louder and angrier until reason scurried away like a frightened mouse. The last time she’d seen Philip, he’d been clutching the restraining order, furious. This is bullshit! You don’t know what you’ve done!

Her fingers poised over the 9-1-1 direct-dial button, her gaze scanning the darkness. At first glance, nothing was out of place. Her door was closed. Locked along with a dead bolt.

And then, the faint flutter of movement in the shadows inside her closet. Another cold breeze from a half-open window brushed her skin. Time slowed, and even the air in the room grew heavy.

“Hello, Leah.” Philip’s deep voice sounded amused as he stepped out of her closet.

Philip! How had he gotten into her room? Mentally, she ran from lock to lock in the apartment, checking.

He clicked on the overhead light, making her wince at the burst of brightness. Tall, wearing a dark turtleneck, jeans, and boots, his broad shoulders ate up the tiny space of her room. He stared at her, his long fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. Attached to his waistband was the brown leather holster that cradled a six-inch knife blade. The blade was inches from his right hand.

“Philip.”

“Leah.” His voice devoid of concern or fear, as it always did when he came to a decision. There would be no turning back.

Without taking her gaze from him, she hit 9-1-1. A distant “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” echoed from the phone.

“My husband’s going to kill me,” Leah said. “I live at One-Twelve Main Street, Apartment Two. Treemont Apartments.” How many times had she practiced this line, imagining this moment over and over?

“Ma’am, repeat what you just said.” The operator’s voice was clean, crisp, and so blissfully free of fear.

Leah’s hand trembled so badly she thought she’d drop the phone. “He’s found me. He’s in my room.”

“Who’s found you, ma’am?”

Unconcerned, Philip rested his hand on the hilt of the knife.

“My husband. Philip Latimer. He’s going to kill me.”

How long would it take for the cops to arrive? Five minutes? Ten? And how long would it take for him to cross the room and stab her? Seconds.

“How do you know he’ll kill you?” The operator’s voice was flat, emotionless.

“He’s in my bedroom. He has a knife.”

Philip knew exactly how long it took the cops to respond. He was a cop. Saving people like her was his job.