Michael leaned over her again, his weight pressing her into the ground.

“Please…Please don’t…”

He kissed her again. She pushed her weight into her right hand, pulling as hard as she could with the left to stretch the rope. Her stomach muscles shuddered, her breath caught, as the skin started to peel off her hand like a glove. He jammed his tongue farther down her throat, his teeth clashing against hers. She could feel the shattered bones in her right wrist grind against each other. The pain was so unbearable that she finally gave into it, let it rush through her body like a red tide.

Michael sat back on his heels, watching her.

“No…” she breathed. “Oh, God, no…” She was going to pass out. She couldn’t stop it. Her eyelids flickered. Her vision blurred.

She felt him press harder into her, excited by her pain.

“Take it off,” she panted. “Take off the mask.”

He shook his head.

“Let me see you.”

“No.”

“Will,” she whispered. Where was Will?

“What?”

She shook her head, blinking, forcing herself to stay lucid. “Oh, Will…”

“It’s not Will,” he said, using his free hand to peel off the ski mask. He threw it on the ground. “It’s Michael. I’m the one who’s doing this to you.”

“Will.”

He twisted her head, forced her to look at him. “Who’s doing this to you, Angie?”

“Will…”

“Look at me,” he repeated, his voice stern. “Look at me, Angie.” His weight shifted, pressing her harder into the dirt. Angie moaned as the broken bones shifted.

“Help…” she whispered, her voice nearly failing her.

“That’s it,” Michael said. “Yell for help.”

“No…” Angie writhed underneath him, whimpering, “Please don’t hurt me…please.”

He dropped the knife and fumbled with the button on his jeans. He was reaching into his pants when she reared straight up and slammed her head into his.

The blow stunned him, and she scooped up the knife in her left hand before he could regain his senses. She was the one straddling him this time. She was the one holding the knife at his throat.

“You stupid cunt,” she slurred, blood and saliva spraying his face. “The glass on the stairs. I cut the rope on the glass.”

He didn’t speak, but she saw it in his eyes. No.

Her body shook with rage as she pressed the blade harder against his flesh. Michael didn’t flinch, didn’t struggle; the brutal rapist, the violent murderer, and he’d given up just like that.

How many men, Angie thought. How many men’s faces were seared into her brain, their twisted mouths grinning as they pounded it into her, their big hands pressing into her wrists so hard that the next day she almost hurt more there than she did between her legs?

Even if Jasmine made it out of here alive, she would always have this bastard’s face in her head, always feel his hands on her body every time another man touched her. Even if she loved that man. Even if she wanted that man more than anybody else in the whole world, it would always be Michael’s face she would see when she closed her eyes.

Being raped wasn’t the hard part. Surviving was what killed you.

“Angie!”

There was a loud crash upstairs, splintering. The front door had busted open.

“Angie!” Will yelled. “Where are you!”

She put her face close to Michael’s, making him look into her eyes as she whispered, “Kiss this, you stupid motherfucker,” and jammed the blade up under his ribs.

Michael’s mouth opened just as Angie’s did. She let out a blood-curdling scream, pulling out the knife and plunging it back in to the hilt, yelling, “Help! I’m down here!” She drew back the blade and slammed it home again and again, screaming until her throat was raw. “Will! We’re down here!”

“Angie!” The cellar door buckled as Will tried to break it down.

“Will!” she pleaded, twisting the blade into Michael’s gut. “Help me!”

Three gunshots splintered the lock off the door. She used the knife like a handle to shift Michael’s weight onto her just as footsteps pounded down the stairs.

Will grabbed Michael from behind and threw him against the wall like a bag of trash.

“Angie!” Will was breathing so hard he almost couldn’t speak. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” He tried to take the knife from her, but her hand would not let go. “Did he hurt you? Baby, please talk to me.”

“Will,” she whispered, wanting to touch his face, wipe away the tears streaming out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he told her, gently prying open her fingers so she would let go of the knife. “It’s okay now. I’m here.”

“Will…”

“Your hands,” he said, horrified. “What did he do to your hands?”

Someone else entered the room. She saw a man running down the stairs. John Shelley stopped just before the bottom tread. He looked at Michael, then Jasmine, as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to do.

“Angie.” Will held her in his arms, cradling her. She didn’t stop him even though it hurt all over. “Oh, Angie.”

John went to the girl. He checked her pulse, looked at the wound on her head.

Angie could only watch Michael. She wanted him to see her, wanted the image of her face to haunt him.

His eyes were open. He blinked once, twice. Blood pooled on the floor in front of him like a river flowing out of his body. Pink translucent bubbles sputtered on his lips as his lungs filled. His breath whistled through the holes Angie had made in his chest.

He knew what was happening to him.

He was terrified.

Will pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re all right,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

Michael’s eyelids fluttered. A gurgling noise filled the room as he began to choke on his own blood. His mouth gaped open, a thin line of blood tracing a path down his cheek.

Angie pursed her lips and blew him a kiss good-bye.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

FEBRUARY 13, 2006

You” was all Lydia Ormewood said when she’d opened her front door to find John and Joyce standing there.

Michael’s mother had aged well, or more likely she’d spent enough money to make sure she looked like it. Though John knew the woman was in her late sixties, the skin on her face was smooth and healthy-looking. Even her neck and hands, the usual giveaway, were as smooth and young as Joyce’s.

Life had obviously been very good to her. She lived in Vinings, one of Atlanta’s more expensive suburbs, in a brand-new, three-story house. White walls loomed over everything, white carpets scattered around the bleached oak floors. A gleaming white grand piano was in the living room, and two black leather couches faced each other by a marbled fireplace. Cream silk curtains hung in the windows. Abstract art with bold primary colors hung on the walls, all of it probably original work. Lydia herself was monochromatic. She wore black. John did not know if this was her regular attire or if she was in mourning for her son.