Relief echoed in the back of her mind. Behind the terror. Growing up in foster care, she was always on the outside, and rarely trusted. Now, she knew secrets, and she was actually trusted. That mattered. Her clients’ sensitive information was safe, and she could be pleased.
“After we made copies of everything, of course.” George snorted. “My boss has a buddy who can figure out that kind of stuff. Maybe we’ll make some extra money on the side.” One bushy black eyebrow wriggled. “I don’t suppose you teach people how to hide stuff from the IRS?”
“No. I teach them how to take legal deductions so they don’t end up in jail.” She lifted her chin. “You been to jail, George?”
Creases cut deep alongside his mouth as he frowned. “I served a dime.” He leaned toward her, the smell of old tacos wafting from him. “I’ll kill before I go back, Ms. Dean. You might want to remember that fact.”
Her knees wobbled. “Apparently you haven’t let go of your life of crime.”
He wrinkled his mouth, biting his lip. “True. Sometimes you get into a life, and there’s no getting free. You are who you are.” He gestured with the saw as he spoke.
Killing was a philosophy to the guy. Panic heated her lungs—she had to get out of there before he killed her. Large bolt cutters perched on a sawhorse to her left. A power drill lay on the floor ahead of her. George held the saw. She toed off her three-inch heels as he admired the power saw in his hands. Was he imagining using the jagged blade on her? She shivered. Her thigh muscles bunched as she calculated the best way to take him down. Nothing seemed good.
But it was now or never. Steeling her spine, she tried to focus her energy. Then she leapt forward and grabbed the bolt cutters, swinging toward George.
He jumped back, out of the way.
The metal weighed heavily in her hands. The end of the tool thunked against the floor as gravity took over. She panted out a breath.
George shook his head. “Now I have to teach you a lesson. I really didn’t want to have to hurt you.” His smile hinted he was lying. “Put down the cutters, Mrs. Dean.”
“Not a chance, asshole.” Panic hazed her vision. The man was going to kill her. Her mind spun, and she eyed the elevator.
“Okay.” He jumped toward her, saw in hand.
She yelped and swung again with the heavy tool, missing once again. But as George took another running step, his feet tangled in the power saw’s cord. He went down. The floor rumbled in protest.
Crying out, Josie swung the cutters at his head.
Crack.
Blood arced across the rough floor.
“Bitch.” Blood poured down his temple. He yanked the cutters out of her hand, throwing them across the floor. “I’m going to kill you.” He reached down to untangle his legs.
Run. Josie dodged to the side and ran.
Oh God.
Chapter 18
Her stockings snagged on the subfloor as Josie ran for the elevator. Slivers cut into her feet. Sobbing, she punched the up and down buttons.
Behind her, something crashed against the wall. George had thrown the saw.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Josie chanted, pushing the buttons. The blood rushed through her ears. Her knees trembled. She glanced toward the makeshift office. George teetered to his feet with a roar, stumbling toward her.
No time. She pivoted and ran toward the far wall. Toward the stairwell. Her feet slipped on new marble tiles. With a cry, she yanked open the door and ran inside.
Shit. She wasn’t in the stairwell. The room was a large closet, probably a janitor’s storage area. A stinky room. Rows of metal shelves stood next to the door, awaiting some sort of order.
Footsteps pounded closer. Reason fled, and she panted out fear. Survival was all that mattered. She slammed the door shut, engaging the lock. Would George have a key?
Someone had left the light on, thank goodness. She leaped forward and yanked a shelving unit down in front of the door. Then another. Stacks of marble tile rested against the far wall. Her fingers shaking, she grabbed several tiles and piled them between the downed shelves. Her nails split. The rough edges of the tiles cut into the pads of her fingers.
George pounded on the door. “You little bitch. I’m going to kill you.”
She bit back a sob and kept piling tiles. Back and forth. Tiles. Until they were all between the shelves, keeping the door shut. Even if he had a key and could unlock the door, no way could he push it open.
Panting now, she backed away from the door. What now? How could she get a message to Shane?
Josie sniffed, tears burning her eyes.
George continued to pound.
She scanned the room frenziedly for a weapon. Near the tiles. A box cutter. She leapt for the large razor blade, holding the tool in front of her toward the door. Her hands shook. Blood from her tile-mangled fingers dripped to the floor.
George continued to pound.
He didn’t have a key. She needed to focus.
What stank? Did new tile smell like rotten tomatoes? She eyed the small room. Stacks of wooden flooring piled up at the far wall. She edged toward them. Was there a dead rat in the corner?