The Blakely of just a month ago would walk right by this alleyway and not even look. She would feel absolutely no responsibility to turn down the alley when she hears a woman’s cry for help.

But the desperate pull in my chest has me doing the exact opposite.

And when I see him—his hands around her throat—I have no choice.

On reflex, I run toward Ericson and sling my bag at his head. “You sick bastard. Let her go!”

His elbow connects with my cheek, sending me into the concrete wall. Pain radiates through my shoulder. Dammit.

He’s not fazed as he flops his unkempt, dirty-blond hair out of his eyes and continues to strangle the woman, silencing her cries. Her fearful gaze connects with mine, a plea there that riots through me. Then I notice Ericson’s pants are unzipped and slung low around his hips.

Bile rises into my throat, the burn urging me off the wall. “Get the fuck away from her, you piece of shit.”

With a grunt, Ericson slams the woman’s head against the wall. She falls to the pavement, her torn skirt riding up her thighs, a shoe missing from her foot. As Ericson turns to acknowledge me, I shove my hand into my bag.

I take a step backward as he approaches. “This is none of your business, bitch,” he says.

I agree—but it’s too late to walk away. No one cares about what’s happening on this backstreet or the woman with the missing shoe. Cars drive past, horns blare, people rushing to live their lives. Why the hell do I care?

It’s not because I was hired to do a job.

Something else, something foreign and memorable all at once, and it’s waging a war. The feeling builds and builds until it erupts. A lifetime of reserved empathy releases an avalanche.

As Ericson’s lips curl into a snide smile. He must decide I’m not worth his bother because he turns and starts toward his victim again. The helpless, defenseless woman lying in a filthy, pee-soaked alley behind a Dumpster.

As I watch Ericson kneel and lean over her, a fierce violence quakes within me, the onslaught of emotion so overpowering my vision blurs. My chest explodes with heat. Every emotion I’ve been denied takes hold with a furious vengeance.

My hand is still in my bag. I grip the solid object in my palm. My feet are taking me toward Ericson, and then the switchblade is in his back.

His guttural cry bounces off the building as I stare down at my hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife. I yank if free and, as he flails his arms to attack, I drive the blade into his collarbone. I struggle to pry it loose, and stab his chest.