Good as Dead(67)

But he ignored her and laid into me. “You did it to yourself,” he said, his blue eyes boring into mine. He reached behind him and locked the bedroom door, then waved us toward the closet. “Get in the closet.”

“Logan, please . . . ,” I begged. Why does he want us to go into the closet? Dad used to keep guns in his bedroom closet, but we weren’t at our old apartment, and I had no idea where they were now.

“GET IN!” He pointed the knife at me and charged at my throat. Mom grabbed me and pulled me out of its reach.

“OK, OK,” she soothed, one hand outstretched like she was commanding a dog to stay. “We’re going.”

She stood up, then looked at me and squeezed my hand. We’re in this together, the gesture telegraphed. Two are stronger than one.

“Hurry up!” Logan commanded, and Mom made that OK, OK hand gesture again, then slowly led me toward her closet. As she opened the closet door, full of her things and God willing those guns, Logan barked, “Wait!” He peeked in the other closet—the empty “his.” “This one,” he ordered.

Mom’s face twitched with disappointment. And I knew I was right about the guns, that she kept them tucked on a high shelf, between her sweaters and jeans, just like Dad did.

“If it’s the money you want, we can work something out,” Mom said, but Logan just laughed.

“You made it really easy for me by taking all those pills,” he said through the crooked smile I once adored but now made me sick. “When they find your dead bodies, they’ll see there was a history and won’t be suspicious.”

My head felt light as my blood waterfalled into my feet. He was not improvising. He had planned this. Ever since the day he’d taken me out for tacos.

“You’re right,” Mom said, trying one last time to bargain with him. “No one would question if something happened to me. But Savannah, she had nothing to do with this. She’s a smart girl, you could work it out—”

“Stop it!” Logan shouted. “Stop talking and get in!”

He pointed at the closet with his knife hand. His arm muscles flexed rock-hard, his knuckles were white. He was strong, but I was fast. I suddenly thought, If I can get by him, I might be able to run for help.

I felt a surge of determination. The hallway between the two closets was wide, I could definitely slip past him. But then what? He had a weapon and I didn’t. If he threw that knife at me, I’d be toast. But he said he was going to kill us anyway, so what did I have to lose?

Like a sprinter in the starting gate, I readied myself to spring. I twisted my back foot in the carpet, hoping my mom would see the signal that I was going to make a move. She showed me she did when she shifted her weight away from me to give me space.

“Move back,” Logan ordered. My mom glanced at me as she stood firm. “I said move back!” Once again she defied the order. He raised his free arm to push her. She grabbed it and shouted, “Go!”

She yanked his arm with all her might, widening my path just enough to streak through.

I exploded off my back foot.

Adrenaline surged through my body as I lunged for the door. I had a solid jump on him, plus the element of surprise. By the time he turned around, my hand was on the door handle. I pulled on it, hard.

It didn’t budge. I forgot he had locked it.

“Savannah, watch out!”

I turned around. Logan was lunging for my throat. He swung the knife. I ducked, and it connected with the door.

Mom’s arms were around Logan’s neck in a flash, but he was too strong for her and he quickly shook her off, then body-slammed her to the ground. Her head bounced off the wall, then rolled to one side.

“Mom!”

I sprang to standing. The knife was still in the door, but Logan was between it and me, there was no way I could get to it. I scanned the room for a weapon—anything that could even the fight. My eyes combed the furniture, the walls, the floor.

That’s when I saw them.

Mom’s steel-toed boots.

I stumbled back toward the bed, groping for a boot as Logan grabbed the knife and yanked it free.

My hand found the boot, and I plunged my fist into the shank and raised it like a claw. All that love I’d felt for him swirled into a vortex of rage and hate. If this was a fight to the death, I was ready.

As the knife came at my chest, I swung the steel-toed Timberland at Logan’s outstretched arm. It missed his arm, but slammed into his hand, springing the knife from his fingers and sending it clattering to the ground.

“You little bitch!” he growled as he shook his hand, then lowered his shoulder and came at me like a battering ram.

I cried out as I slammed the boot down on his back.

It sank into his flesh but was not enough to stop him.

My lungs burned for air as he slammed my back against the floor.

He was on top of me now, the full weight of him across my chest, using his knees to pin my arms to my sides. I bucked and flailed my legs, but they were as useless as kite tails in the wind.

“I should have slit your throat when I had the chance,” he hissed, then grabbed me by my hair and yanked me to my feet. Pain shot across my scalp. I cried out.

“Shut up!” he barked as he dragged me toward the open, empty closet.

My mom groaned and tried to grab his legs, but he kicked her aside. My screams turned to sobs as I watched her body wilt back down onto the carpet.