Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mark waited for the light to change, tapping his fingers to the beat of the music playing on his stereo. Trying not to think about Amanda.

But she was all he could think about, all he'd thought about since he'd first seen her Thursday night. And now he'd left her alone. Probably with another man.

He figured Carl had wasted no time checking to make sure she was all right. Mark had seen the guy standing in the same spot as he had that morning, a dark shadow in the alley beside Amanda's building. Had he waited there all day?

Obviously, Carl was more into Amanda than she realized. Because to stand there, waiting for her to get home…?

That was stalker behavior.

Mark's neck prickled.

Stalker behavior?

What if the dark figure hadn't been Carl?

What if you're wrong?

The light turned green, but Mark didn't move.

The driver in the car behind him beeped, impatient, but he ignored him.

When the left lane was clear, he yanked the wheel into an illegal U-turn, grabbed his phone and dialed her number.

No answer.

His heart raced as he sped past a bus, through a yellow light, and onto her street. He stopped in the space in front of the hydrant, tires squealing as he hit the brakes.

He lurched from the car, up the stairs, and into the breezeway. The inner door was locked. He pressed every button on the wall.

Come on, come on.

Somebody would buzz him through.

A female voice came over the intercom. Not Amanda. "Who is it?"

He took a chance and said, "It's me."

The door buzzed.

So much for security.

He yanked the door and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the third-floor landing. He found the door that must be hers and rapped on it with his fist.

"Amanda?"

He turned the knob. Also locked.

He banged again, louder this time. "Amanda? Are you okay?"

Something smashed.

There was a muffled scream.

Mark kicked the door.

The jamb splintered. The door crashed open.

Inside, a man was scrambling to his feet.

Amanda lay beneath him, a broken lamp scattered in jagged pieces all over the floor.

Mark grabbed the guy's sweatshirt and yanked him away from her.

Amanda scooted back.

Mark smashed the rat's face against the hardwood floor, then punched him in the kidneys, twice.

The stalker curled in a ball.

To be on the safe side, Mark punched him on the side of his head until he slumped. "If you move"— Mark spoke in his ear—"I'll kill you." For good measure, he punched him again.

Keeping his hands on the rat's neck, he looked at Amanda. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. Then shook her head. Her eyes were wide, her gaze jumping from Mark to the figure on the floor.

"You're safe." He scooted to where she leaned against the back of the sofa, pulled off his jacket, and draped it over her. "You're in shock. Can you tell me what hurts?"

She blinked, shook her head again.

"Okay. It's okay." He tucked her against his chest and rubbed her back. "You're safe now."

She didn't speak, though he could feel her trembling.

Two men appeared in the doorway, young enough to be college students. Both wore jeans. One wore a gray sweatshirt, the other a dark blue Johnson & Wales T-shirt. The one in the sweatshirt said, "What happened? Amanda?"

She didn't even look up.

Mark said, "Call 911."

"Right." The T-shirt guy pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed, retreating into the hallway.

Mark spoke to the guy in the sweatshirt. "Get her a blanket, would you?"

"Uh…"

"Try the bedroom."

"Right." He disappeared and, a moment later, reappeared with an afghan, the kind someone's grandmother would knit. "Is this okay?"

"It works." The kid draped it over her, then stood back, eyeing the figure on the floor warily.

Mark backed up to see Amanda's face. "Honey, can you tell me what?—?"

The figure on the floor lunged for the door.

Sweatshirt guy shifted out of the way.

Mark disengaged from Amanda and tackled the stalker, landing squarely on his back, then slammed his face into the hardwood floor again. "Do you want me to kill you? Because if you move again, I will beat the last breath out of you." He slammed his head into the floor again. "Do you hear me?"

"Uh-huh." The sound was wet and gurgled.

Mark flipped him over, lifted his head in both his hands, and smashed it into the floor one more time. The man went limp.

Mark looked up to see the T-shirt guy back in the door, eyes wide.

Sweatshirt guy stood in the kitchen with his hands up as if Mark might attack him next.

Amanda sat on the floor. All three of them were staring at him.

"He's alive," Mark said. "If he moves again…"

Sweatshirt guy joined his friend in the doorway. "We won't let him out."

Not that he'd be able to walk a straight line, but Mark nodded his thanks anyway, then asked, "The police?"

"On their way."

"Okay. Thanks." He lifted Amanda off the floor—she weighed less than his pack—and laid her on the sofa. "Tell me what hurts."

Tears filled her eyes. "My back. Everything. But I don't think anything's broken."

Her left cheek was red and swollen. He dabbed it with his fingertip. "He hit you here. Anything else?"

"I'm okay." She rested her head on his chest. "I'm okay, Mark. Thanks to you."