He grimaced, slackened his grip, giving me time to break free and scramble out of the kitchen. As I neared the front door, his footsteps thundered behind me. I ripped one of my river pictures off the wall and swung it around, striking him hard on the side of the face. Glass shattered into shards, cutting deep into his skin. He fell back as I threw the framed picture at him, wrestled the chain and locks open before reaching for the doorknob. I gripped the cold metal and twisted.

As I ran for the stairwell, I pulled in a breath, trying to shove out a scream. I stumbled down the stairs, gripping the rail. Cool metal slid under my palm as I struggled to even out my breathing. Upstairs, Jack’s footsteps thundered out of my apartment.

Down to the fourth floor, I turned the corner and kept running. My legs were weak, and I felt sick to my stomach.

“Marisa,” Jack said. “Don’t do this!”

Third floor, I heard the front door to the apartment building open and close. Someone was there. I kept running, and when I hit the second-floor landing, I stumbled but caught myself after an exaggerated step.

Jack was getting closer. He was now only one floor behind me.

On the first floor, a couple stood by the elevator. They were holding hands, staring blissfully at each other as I burst around the corner smelling of tequila and fear. “Call 9-1-1, please!”

They stared at me shocked, confused. It was one of those moments when we all think we know how we’ll react, but in the end, we’re stunned into silence by the unexpected.

I ran toward the woman, staggering. “Call 9-1-1!”

Jack burst out of the stairwell door behind me. He saw the couple. Tried to smile as blood dripped from a jagged cut on his cheekbone. “It’s okay, she’s just upset. We had a fight.”

“He’s trying to kill me!” My belly ached from the blow, and my blouse was doused in tequila. I raced toward the couple, grabbing the woman’s sleeve.

The woman snatched her arm away.

“She gets this way when she’s drunk.” Jack’s voice was almost calm now, and I was shocked he had recovered so quickly. “She has mental problems. My wife called and asked me to check in on her. I caught her drinking and she lost it.”

Had he been this calm when he’d stripped Clare’s dead body and laid her in the river?

The man frowned, but it was the woman who reached for her phone. As she readied to dial, Jack hurried toward her. “Please, she’s sick, and we don’t want the police involved. With her record, they’ll put her back in the mental hospital.”

“He’s lying,” I rasped.