Chapter 19
SAVANNAH
Sweeping the floor of Mocha Lisa, I pause and roll my head to stretch my neck. It’s been an eventful shift. It was chaos from the moment I got here until close.
My time with Luke yesterday is what kept me grounded through the entirety of my shift.
When we locked the doors, I told Hattie to go home. The bags under her eyes looked heavy and dark. She works too hard sometimes.
Hattie tried arguing with me, but eventually, I was able to convince her to go. As soon as I’m done cleaning, I’m going home and falling face-first on my bed. I plan on remaining in that position until the sun rises, which isn’t far away.
Partygoers and revelers alike noisily amble down the sidewalk outside, some so inebriated that they sing Christmas carols off-key and like they’re trying to make everyone in the immediate vicinity hard of hearing.
The lights overhead flicker, and my heart stops as a chill breaks out over my skin. Craning my head back to look upward, I search for the source of the faulty lights, but everything seems to be fine.
If I’m not already crazy, I’m well on my way there.
When I resume sweeping, a delicate crash sounds from the kitchen
“Hello?” My call is met with silence.
My fingers lock around the handle of the broom, wishing it were the hilt of my blade. With light steps, I round the counter, heading toward the kitchen.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. As I get closer, a sheen of sweat spreads over my skin.
When I reach for the handle, a chair scrapes against the tiled floor. The sound cuts through the air like a warning.
“Who’s there?” I force a severe bite into my voice.
No answer.
More silence.
The close sound of shuffling footsteps has me dropping the broom and bolting through the kitchen door, darting for the knife stashed in my locker. My hands shake as I try to spin the dial to input the combination.
I mess up twice before I finally manage to undo the lock. I open the door only an inch before I’m slammed from behind. My head knocks against the metal, and a hand grasps my hair at the root, holding me in place.
The size and sheer strength of the person lead me to believe my attacker is a man. His chest pushes against my back as he breathes.
The voice is distorted and mechanical, as if the person is using a voice scrambler. “You must be cleansed.”
My breathing turns shallow as my knees go weak. The ringing in my ears overwhelms my senses. Memories run through my mind, and a whimper falls from my mouth.
Regular purity exams.
My feet in stirrups.
The cold metal of tools.
No. Please, no. Not again. I can’t go back. I won’t survive. He won’t let me.
The metallic rasp of the voice brings me out of my frozen state. “I will purge the stains from your soul so you may stand spotless in the eyes of God.”
Tightening my fists, I widen my stance. “Like hell you will.”
I throw my head back, and my attempt to smash his face misses. His grip on my hair loosens, and he steps back. I drop my weight, throwing the man off balance, and wrap my hands around his wrist. With a secure hold, I spin to face him and jam my elbow into his forearm.
He grunts, and I pull him toward me as I intentionally fall to the ground. He finally lets go of my hair as he collides with the set of lockers.
I don’t wait around for him to regain control of his faculties and scramble away on my hands and knees. Stumbling to my feet, I sprint for the back door, but when I push on the bar, it only opens an inch. There’s a clink of metal as I try repeatedly to shove the door open.
“You cannot outrun the judgment Heaven sent me to deliver.”
Flipping around, I place my back against the door and find the attacker walking straight for me.
A white hockey mask covers his face, and the hood of his jacket is flipped up over his head, shielding his identity. He stands tall, wearing all black, and gloves on his hands.
I have nowhere to hide, so I do the only thing I can think of that will help me escape. My hand swipes down the wall next to me, turning off the lights.
His footsteps rush toward me as the room goes pitch black, and I slide to the side. A bang from the man slamming into the door booms next to me.
Praying I don’t run into anything, I sprint forward in the direction of the front of the café.
“You cannot escape Heaven’s wrath!”
A stream of light illuminates the kitchen as I reach the door, shoving it open. I don’t glance back and push myself to the front.
The attacker rams into my back, tackling me to the floor. I land flat on my stomach behind the counter, blocking our scuffle from the view of the windows. My cheek bounces on the tile, making my head spin.
Reaching my hands back, I claw and scratch at anything I touch.
His face is covered, but his hair is fair game.
I yank and pull at every strand, causing him to curse in frustration.
When I wrench a chunk of hair from his scalp, he shouts in pain, and I throw my elbows back.
The man falls to the side, clutching his head.
Fumbling to my feet, I rush for the doors, but I can’t open them either. I locked the entrance when I began my closing routine, and I don’t have the keys with me.
Desperate for an escape, an idea comes to me that feels like my only viable option.
My fingers wrap around the back of the closest chair, easily lifting it into the air, and I swing it at the glass windows.
The first hit does nothing and bounces back. The second hit forms a crack. The third brings the entire window crashing down.
The continuous screeches of the alarm resound in the space, forcing me to cover my ears.
I bolt through the shattered window and out onto the sidewalk, running into an older couple.
“Oh my God, dear! Are you alright?” The elderly man exclaims.
“Call 911!” My desperate plea is immediately obeyed, and police sirens reverberate in the distance.
Turning back, I find the store empty. The only evidence that anyone was ever there is the destroyed window, but even that was done by me, not him.
For a moment, my stomach drops, making me think I made the whole thing up. But once the adrenaline starts to wear off, the cold settles into my bones, and the throb from the bump on my head pulses, the reality of what just happened makes me feel queasy.
The old man gives me his coat, and he and his partner wait with me until the police and first responders arrive.
My breathing doesn’t slow when the NYPD turns up.
My muscles don’t relax when the EMTs wrap me in a blanket.
My heartbeat doesn’t lessen when evidence is found that I’m not crazy and I actually was attacked.
Nothing brings me relief. Nothing provides comfort.
I can only think of one thing that would make me feel safe right now.
Or maybe three.