She pointed. “You found it like that?”
He explained how and where.
She blinked—several times. “I don’t think a cat would do that.”
Neither do I. “Maybe a mountain lion is prowling the neighborhood? I hear animals are bolder now that the pandemic’s got people sheltering in place.”
“You’re not serious!” She shivered and rubbed her arms.
“How do you explain it?”
“Not a mountain lion. Maybe a bobcat?”
By the time they’d showered and fallen into bed, they’d exhausted logical explanations and agreed to put the whole thing aside until morning. As Quinn gathered her close, pulling in the scent of her freshly shampooed hair, he ran his hands over her silky bare skin. With a sigh, he drifted off to sleep in a euphoric fog.
Quinn awoke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest. He was on his back, and Sarah’s warm weight nestled against his side as she slept in the crook of his arm. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to orient himself. Outside, it was still pitch-black.
Had he had a nightmare? He couldn’t remember.
He thought he heard a rustle and lifted his head to stare into the shadows surrounding the bed. Something moved. He blinked, convinced what he saw was a hallucination brought on by being jarred out of a deep sleep.
Then he felt a shift in the air. Something—or someone—was breathing heavily, and it wasn’t him. He glanced down at Sarah, but her inhales were soft, slow, a different cadence from what he thought he was hearing.
A flash in the dark, and every alarm bell in his head tripped at once. Blood whooshed in his ears. Adrenalin flooded his veins. An unearthly scream fired every nerve, and he shoved Sarah from the bed. He rolled just as something punched into the mattress beside his head, a harsh ripping sound following after.
“He’s here, Sarah! Run!” he bellowed.
Scrambling from the bed, Quinn’s feet became entangled in the covers. Whatever had slashed the mattress was yanked out. It rose up and sliced through the air. Little grunting noises mixed with keening. Quinn heaved his body to the side, his shoulders and head thudding to the floor. Another blow struck the mattress, puncturing it scant inches from his hip. The rest of him was still twisted in the sheets, and he kicked.
A light snapped on.
A wild-eyed woman stood at the foot of the bed, bathed in light, struggling to free a kitchen knife. She froze, distracted by the light. Blond hair escaped a black cap.
What …?
Dory’s eyes burned into his and jerked the blade free. She double-fisted the handle, drawing it up in what seemed to be slow motion.
“You called her ‘babe’! I heard you!” she shrieked. “You couldn’t keep your hands off her—in the pool, the hot tub, and you fucked her on the couch right in front of me! I hate you!” She raised the knife above her head, aiming it at Quinn. He curled away, but not enough to escape the trajectory of the plunge. He threw up his arm. A sudden thump, an impact, and Dory flew to the side. The knife tumbled from her grasp, landing beside Quinn’s thigh. He kicked the covers off and seized the blade. Then he was up, moving.
He rounded the foot of the bed. Sarah was crouched over Dory, one knee digging into Dory’s back. Dory had lost her breath but was rousing. Spitting, hissing. He nudged Sarah off her and took over, his knee now wedged in Dory’s back. His weight drove the breath from her again, and he clamped down on her wrists and held them behind her back.
Sarah grabbed her phone from the nightstand where she’d clicked on the lamp, and her wide eyes traveled from Dory to Quinn as she dialed. She put the phone on speaker and tossed it on the bed. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” crackled through the room.
“A crazy woman broke into my boyfriend’s house and tried to stab him.” Sarah wrenched open the closet door and darted him a look. “Tape? Rope? Laces?” She jerked one of his shirts from a hanger and wrestled it on.
What’s she asking me? A klieg light flashed on in his brain. Smart girl. “Gear bag, middle of the right wall. Should have laces and tape.”
The operator asked questions, and Sarah answered, her voice shaking as she rifled the closet.
“And the woman is still there?” the operator asked.
“Yes!” Sarah screamed.
Underneath him, Dory kicked, cursed, yelled. Her strength took him by surprise. She bucked his knee off. Then she rolled and twisted, and he lost his grip on her hands. Screeching like a banshee, she scrabbled, hopped up, and rushed toward Sarah. On his knees, Quinn lunged and caught Dory’s ankle. She thudded to the floor, her free leg swinging wildly. Her heel glanced off his shoulder, but he held on, adrenalin pumping furiously through his body. Lunacy might have fueled her strength, but it was no match for his.
He caught her other ankle, hauled her in, and jerked her back on her face. Her back was too small to fit both his knees, so he rammed one between her shoulders and pinned her with his weight.
“Sarah,” he panted, “the cops need to unlock the gate to get in.” He rattled off his code and location of the exterior keypad.
Sarah relayed it and dropped beside him with two rolls of hockey tape and a handful of tangled laces. Still talking to the nine-one-one operator, she dove for Dory’s legs, sat on them, and ripped a length of tape she handed Quinn. Getting it wound around Dory’s wrists, however, proved futile. Determination blazing in them, Sarah’s eyes met his in a silent exchange. He nodded. While he held Dory’s hands, Sarah wound tape around her wrists. In sync, they worked quickly and bound her ankles
