|
|
|
|
|
|
|
front of me. One more step, and I'll touch him. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Denise took that one more step. Felt nothing. Took another. And another. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
And gasped as her fingertips prodded something that felt like fabric. She lurched backward, jerking her arm away from it, and Kara bumped against her. A second later came a quiet crashing noise. A pop of glass. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The sounds of a lamp striking the carpeted floor, its bulb bursting. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
You hit its shade, she thought. You knocked it over. And Tom knows right where we are. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
No more point in sneaking. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She shoved the knife handle between her teeth. She fumbled a matchbook out of her shirt pocket. She flipped it open, tore out a match and struck it. A blinding bright flare, then the fire settled to an orange bloom. In its glow, she saw the lamp on the floor at her feet. She saw the sofa and much of the room beyond it. No Tom. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She spun around. He wasn't rushing at them from the rear. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
'Turn on your flashlight,' she whispered. 'We'll make a run for it.' |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The flashlight shot its beam against Denise's belly, then swung away. She shook out her match. She pulled off her shirt. Matchbooks spilled from the pocket as she wadded it. She wrapped the sleeves around the clump of fabric to hold the bundle together, knotted the sleeves once, and clamped shirt |
|
|
|
|
|