I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. Better safe than sorry, right? And I’m certain that’s what Riley would say.

But what should I do in the meantime? Is she dangerous? Do I try to get out of the apartment? Do I try to lock her in the pantry?

I decide to assume that she is dangerous. After all, stalkers stalk. Once they make actual contact, that can’t be a good thing. And since I have no idea how to cajole her into the pantry—which actually does have a lock since we converted it into a vault—I decide that it makes the most sense to just get the hell out of dodge myself.

“I just realized this is heavy cream,” I say, taking the cream pitcher and standing. “I’m going to go get some half-and-half.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” she says, then lunges at me, knocking the table over and sending the coffee service and my phone flying as she catapults me backward onto the couch.

I struggle to sit up, only to find her pulling a long, thin knife from her bag and smiling at me as if we’re just two friends at a cocktail party. “I’m fine with cream. What I really want to do is talk about how you’re fucking my boyfriend. Because that’s not the kind of thing one girl should do to another.”

“Mr. Holt?” I say, even though I’m certain I can’t talk myself out of this. “I’m not sleeping with him. I have a boyfriend. His name’s Riley.” It’s true, I realize, and the thought of Riley strengthens my resolve.

“Don’t you dare lie, you bitch.”

“I’m not.” I keep my voice low and level. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I only want—”

She lunges, proving that all those long negotiation scenes in movies are just bullshit. I roll sideways and tumble off the couch, then kick up, knowing it won’t stop her, but hoping it buys me a few seconds to get to my feet so I can race for the door.

It doesn’t work. Yes, I manage to land my feet hard in her gut, sending her tumbling backward, but that’s only after she sinks her knife into my thigh. I scramble backward, lightheaded from the pain and the sight of blood. But it’s no use. She’s already back on her feet. She’s already coming toward me.

And because of the couch on one side of me and a heavy armchair a few feet from my head, there’s no place that I can go.

Chapter Twelve

“Get the fuck out of the way, you lousy piece of shit.” Riley slammed his hand onto the steering wheel, his horn blasting at the BMW in front of him, which of course had nowhere to go in this fucking bottleneck on Santa Monica Boulevard.