He fell backward onto the porch, still screaming. She gathered her son in her arms and held him tight, pressing his face into her chest, his screams muffled by her thick cardigan. His whole body shook; his mouth opened so wide she felt his teeth sinking into the flesh of her arm. She tried to pull him away, worried he might choke. He hooked his fingers into her back and continued to wail as she ran her fingers through his hair. Then she looked down into the open sack.
And she began to scream too.
CHAPTER 2
Seven Years Later
Rachel Marin’s heels clacked on the dark, iced-over cobblestone street as she hurried home, shielding herself against the bitter December wind. Her afternoon sitter, Iris, had already threatened to quit twice if Rachel didn’t start getting home on time. She was expected home by 7:00 p.m. It was already 7:42.
The thread securing the top two buttons on her coat had frayed, the cold wind slipping inside her jacket, chilling her to the core. It was hardly beyond Rachel’s skill set to sew a loose button, but unearthing ten spare minutes between her children and her job was like squeezing chocolate milk from a brick.
With a brutal winter having descended upon the city of Ashby, Illinois, vacant cabs were nonexistent, the public transportation system was overloaded, and the nearest UberX was twenty minutes away. The lack of transportation options reminded Rachel why many people referred to Ashby as “Budget Chicago.” Ashby was the kind of city you moved to when you were priced out of metropolitan areas, content to live with an abundance of strip malls and a lack of cultural options: one (run-down) cinema, a local theater company, and more burger joints per capita than anywhere else she’d been. But culture was not why they had moved to Ashby. Nor were they strapped financially. This unassuming small town had allowed Rachel and her children to restart their lives. And a fresh, clean start was all that mattered.
So Rachel found herself barreling down a snow-dusted sidewalk under a darkening sky, her purse swinging wildly as she slalomed between pedestrians, trying to avoid catching her heel in a pavement crack and taking down a slew of poor souls like puffy-coated bowling pins. And with just five blocks to go, Rachel was in the home stretch. She’d beg forgiveness from Iris and maybe, just maybe, get home in time to read her daughter a bedtime story.
She didn’t see the man step out in front of her until it was too late.
He was big and solid with a bald freckled head and red cheeks, and Rachel caromed off him like a tennis ball from a cement wall. She fell backward and landed sharply on her tailbone, a lightning bolt of pain shooting through her pelvis. She could feel slush seeping into her pants.
The man, all 250 pounds of him, reached down, pulled her up by the elbow, and whipped her into an alley. Rachel landed hard on her hands and knees and reached for her purse. The man grabbed Rachel’s wrist and held it briefly, as if to say Don’t do that, then threw her up against the brick wall. Her back, hands, and knees were covered in sludge and snow. The man pressed his body firmly against hers and placed his forearm into her neck. His breath smelled of onions and beer.
“I could crush your windpipe like a packet of ketchup,” the man whispered into her ear, his stubble searing her cheek. “You make a sound, and I’ll squeeze until it pops.”
He allowed just enough slack to permit her to breathe but maintained enough pressure on her throat to let her know it wouldn’t necessarily stay that way. With his free hand he slipped her pocketbook from her shoulder, pressed the brass clasp to unlock it, and took out her wallet. He then turned the purse upside down and shook it until all Rachel’s belongings fell onto the grimy street.
Out went her lipstick, tampons, mirror, hairbrush, a KIND bar, a pack of sugar-free gum, and her makeup kit. He dropped her purse into the muck, then unzipped the wallet. He smiled when he saw a thick wad of twenties nestled inside.
“That’s to pay my sitter,” Rachel said.
“Was to pay her,” the man said, stuffing the bills in the pocket of his dark-green bomber jacket.
“Please, don’t do this.”
“Consider yourself lucky if I only take the money,” he said, pressing his arm against her throat just a little harder. Rachel struggled beneath his bulk.
“Please,” she said, croaking out the word. “I just want to get home to my children. Just walk away now, and we can forget this ever happened.”
He stared at her. She saw the slightest twitch in his eyes, like he was considering her plea. Then he glanced down the alleyway. It was empty. And it was dark. She felt something rub up against her leg and instantly knew what was about to happen.
“It’d be a shame to end the night early,” he said, dragging her farther into the alley. “Scream, and I’ll open you up where you don’t already have any holes.”
She dug her feet into the ground and said, “Sir, I’m begging you, don’t do this. You’ll regret it.”
“I’ll regret it?” he said with a hearty laugh. “Beg all you want; it’ll be more fun if you do.”
“Please. Don’t make me do this.”
The man stopped. Looked back at her, amused. He still held her by the wrist.
“Make you do what?”
Rachel sighed. Before the man had a chance to take another breath, she brought her wrist up so that her palm was facing her nose, forcing the man to straighten his arm, forearm up, to keep his grip. She then snapped her free hand upward against his elbow, hyperextending the joint and tearing the radial and ulnar collateral ligaments. He howled in pain and grabbed his injured limb. She was free.
Then Rachel turned the flat of her hand into a knife’s edge and jabbed her fingers into his throat. The man made a choking sound, his eyes went wide, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Tears streamed down his cheeks. When he staggered back to his feet, Rachel used his forward momentum to slam his head against the brick wall. He crumpled to the ground. Rachel then pressed the point of her heel into the small, soft crook in his ankle where the tibia bone met the talus bone.
“If I press down any harder,” Rachel said, “I’ll split your ankle in two. You scream, and I’ll pop it like a ketchup packet.”
“What do you want?” the man spat between moans.
“What do I want? Hmm. Let me see . . . what do I want . . . ,” Rachel said sarcastically. “Well, I wanted to get home in time to read my daughter a story before bed, but you ruined that, so thanks.”
Rachel knelt down, keeping pressure on the man’s ankle, and slid her hand into his jacket pocket. She took her money back. In one pocket she found his wallet. In the other, she found a small folding knife. She flicked the blade open.
She examined the steel. It was old, dull. A careless weapon for a careless man.
She pressed the knife tip into the small of the man’s back, just above his pelvis. He went rigid.
“Please,” he said softly.
“This part of your spine is what’s known as the cauda equina,” Rachel said. “It’s a group of nerve endings that controls everything from motor and organ function to your lower limbs. Point being: I could make you a paraplegic in the time it takes you to sneeze.” She pressed the knifepoint in, harder. Mucus and blood and tears pooled together and dripped down his face into the slush.