“It’s Margo.” Her teeth suddenly chattered as a chill swept her. “M-Margo McMillan. She’s here.”
“She’s inside the house?” he asked sharply.
“Yes. She has one of the kitchen knives. The door is locked, but—”
“If necessary, go into the bathroom and lock that door, too. Get some towels and wrap them around your arms. Use anything you can to hinder her. Throw towels on her, and try to get them around the knife so she can’t use it. Spray deodorant in her face. There are weapons in the bathroom, baby; all you have to do is use them.”
“I understand,” she said, whispering, unable to speak louder, though he probably couldn’t hear her over the siren.
The door handle rattled. She jumped and put down the phone to go stand by the bathroom door.
Something scratched the lock. Margo was picking the lock.
The bathroom lock wouldn’t be any more substantial than the bedroom lock. Sweeney ran into the bathroom and grabbed an armful of towels, as well as the can of spray deodorant. Doing as Richard had said, she wrapped a thick towel around each arm. She knew why. She was supposed to use her wrapped arms to deflect the knife. She remembered the wounds on Candra’s arms.
The door opened, shoving the chair aside. Margo didn’t say anything, just entered the room in a rush, the knife gleaming in her hand.
Sweeney grabbed a thick towel and lunged at the woman, throwing all her weight at her in an effort to knock her off balance. Margo screamed as the towel entangled her arm, but she struck anyway, and the knife bit through the thick fabric. Sweeney felt the kiss of it burn on her left triceps.
She didn’t know how to fight. She had never fought anyone in her life. But she twisted, getting inside the arc of the knife, and hammered her fist into Margo’s nose. Blood spurted, and she saw the look of shock in Margo’s infuriated eyes, as if she couldn’t believe anyone would dare strike her. The whole thing struck Sweeney as so ridiculous that she hit her again, and again, digging her feet against the thick carpet and pushing, using all her strength and weight to push Margo backwards.
“Bitch!” Margo shrieked, trying to wrench the knife free.
Sweeney saw the stair railing behind Margo and pushed harder, pushing, driving for the edge. The knife bit through the towel wrapped around her left arm, and the searing pain ignited a firestorm of rage. She heard herself screaming, over and over, and she pushed harder. A startled look crossed Margo’s bloody face, just for a second; then the resistance of her body fell out from under Sweeney and she tumbled over the railing to land on the slate tiles below.
Panting, Sweeney dropped to her hands and knees next to the railing, heart hammering, and for a moment she thought she would faint. Blood streamed in rivulets down her left arm, soaking the towel. She would need stitches, she thought, absurdly irritated by the thought. She had never had stitches before. It would probably hurt. Her lower lip trembled at the thought.
That small tremble made her realize she was close to hysteria. She took several deep breaths, trying to focus, though it was incredibly difficult to think. The deep breaths helped, and she sat on the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to look over the railing; Margo had landed with a sickening, squashy sort of thud. Slate tiles weren’t forgiving of bones and flesh.
Richard. His name spread through her brain, the thought of him galvanizing her into action, pouring energy back into her legs. She scrambled to her feet and ran—stumbled, actually—into the bedroom to snatch up the receiver.
She fumbled with it, banging it against her cheekbone. “Damn it,” she mumbled, and even though she didn’t have it pressed to her ear yet, she heard Richard’s roar.
“Sweeney!”
“I’m okay,” she said hastily. “Well, almost. Margo fell over the stair railing. I haven’t looked yet.”
“Don’t,” he said, sounding strangled. “My God—” He broke off, and even over the sound of the siren coming through his cell phone, she heard his labored breathing. “We’ll be there in about five minutes. Other patrol cars are on their way. Are you hurt?”
“A little. A couple of cuts on my arm, nothing serious.” I don’t think. She hadn’t looked at the cut on her triceps or the one on her forearm, where the knife had sliced through the towel. She didn’t intend to unwrap that towel, either; she didn’t want to see the damage. She knew it hurt, and that was enough. “I’m going to hang up now, okay? I think I need to vomit.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just hung up, and then put her head between her knees, taking deep breaths and fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
The sound was so low she wasn’t certain she heard it. Her head came up, blood leaping through her veins as she prepared to fight again, but no one was there. She blinked, bewildered, then heard it again: a low moan, from downstairs.
Gingerly Sweeney crept out of the bedroom to the stairs and looked over the railing. Margo lay on her stomach, her left leg bent at an impossible angle under her torso, jagged edges of bone showing white through the torn flesh. Her arms . . . oh, God, she must have tried to brace herself. Margo moved feebly, trying to roll over, and another of those low moans echoed through the house.
Her legs trembling, Sweeney went down the stairs. No matter what, she couldn’t leave Margo in that condition without trying to offer aid, though she had no idea what she could do for injuries so severe.
She knelt beside Margo, and to her shock the woman focused dazed eyes on her. “I fell,” Margo whispered.