Pretty Girls Dancing(92)
There might be only one chance. It’s worth any risk if it gets you home.
Gritting her teeth, Whitney carefully climbed down and went back to where she’d left the things from the table on the floor. Found the thickest book and carried it to the window. She’d have to break the glass and take the chance that he’d hear it. Which meant she had to work quickly. Maybe she could wiggle through the broken panes before he got downstairs.
First, she ran her fingers over the plastic. Taped on, she discovered. Easy to remove. Rearing back with the arm holding the book, she smashed it against the window, square in the center.
The glass cracked rather than shattered. But even that noise seemed deafening in the surrounding silence. But it wasn’t, she assured herself, repeating the action. Not really. The covering helped muffle the sound. She took a moment then to tear away the two-sided tape that kept the thick plastic in place. Then wrapped it around one hand, which she threaded through the hole she’d made. She pressed her palm against the back of the glass as she worked, knocking out the larger shards until there were only tiny teeth left all around the frame.
There was an outside window, as well. Also nailed shut. Whitney worked more quickly now, stifling the noise as she had with the first one. Finally, she was loosening the outside layer of sheeting free from the window. And then frigid air kissed her face. She opened her mouth, taking a greedy gulp. It tasted of freedom.
She set the book down on the table, and then reached up to tear the outside plastic free so she could wrap it around her other hand. Then, palms placed on the windowsill, she gave a mighty jump.
Her arms quivered, and for a moment, she thought she would fall. The screw gouged her skin, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. The muscles in her arms quivered as she struggled to pull herself up far enough to get her elbows on the sill. Used them to leverage the rest of her body as she squeezed herself an inch at a time through the tight space. Until she got stuck. Moving side to side, she tried to free herself. The backpack, she thought. There wasn’t enough room for it. Whitney used her teeth to pull the plastic off one hand so she could clumsily untie the nightdress. It fell away, its contents dropping to the floor. She heard the apples thud and roll, and somehow they sounded louder than the glass had breaking.
The noise infused her with panic. Turning back to her task, she shimmied through the opening, uncaring of the glass slicing through the thin tights and leotard to cut her skin. She ignored the sharp point of the screw between her breasts. Fear gave her speed, and moments later, she was pushing through the second window to the frigid ground outside.
She struggled to her feet, aware that blood was trickling down her body in several places. There was a sliver of a moon, sheening the frosted grass with an eerie glisten. Whitney started to run. Not toward the front of the building, but away from it. There were trees in the distance, clustered around the property. Some pines. She’d leave a clear path on the grass, so her best chance was to put as much space between her and this place as possible.
Fear lent flight to her feet as she sped across the slippery ground, which quickly soaked her ballet shoes. She didn’t feel the sticky blood or the cold. There was only evil behind her, and this was the one chance she was going to have for escape.
She was almost at the tree line. The arctic air slashed at her lungs as she gulped it in, turning her insides to ice. Maybe there’d be a house nearby where she could seek help. Or perhaps a road where she could flag down a passing car.
A howl of rage split the air. Her feet faltered as she threw a look over her shoulder. A shadow was racing through the darkness. Toward her. For the space of an instant, Whitney froze. No! A sob broke from her. Not when she’d come so close! She whirled, flying over the icy ground toward the trees where she could find cover. Where a fallen limb would give her a wea—
The tackle from behind took her down. Terror turned her into a flurry of motion. She rolled, her fists flying, feet kicking, teeth gnashing. The iciness beneath her seeped through her muscles. Settled in her bones. But all her senses were focused on the monster above. He had something over his face again. A mask. Goggles covered his eyes, giving him an alien appearance. She landed a punch against his jaw as he tried to pin her arms and screamed, a raw, jagged shriek fueled by fury and fear. She wouldn’t go back. She’d rather die, here and now. Whitney bucked beneath him and swung again. Missed. His hands grasped the sides of her head, slamming it again and again against the ground. “Ungrateful bitch! After all I’ve done for you!”
Shards of agony arrowed through her brain. A brilliant kaleidoscope of colors wheeled in front of her eyes. Whitney’s struggles grew weaker as she fought against receding consciousness. She felt herself being lifted, and the action ignited a primitive survival instinct.
“Nooo!”
The denial was ripped from her throat. Every stride he took was another step back toward her prison. Back to complete submission or death. Her arm rose, fingers scrabbling for the screw she’d hidden inside her bra. He pressed her more tightly against his chest to quell her movements, but there was a newfound strength flowing through her as she pulled out the screw and swung it toward his face. Encouraged by his howl of pain, she struck again, this time raking it down his cheek.
“Bitch!” She felt herself falling, landing hard on the frozen ground, the screw flying from her hand. He was on her before she could roll away on the slippery grass, his hands going to her throat, squeezing mercilessly. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers went to his and tried to pry them away. Spots were dancing in front of her eyes.