Chapter 169
Chapter 169:
It wasn’t a shadow. It was a person — a figure in a dark, oversized hoodie, hood pulled up to obscure the face. But Cailin knew that posture. She knew the manic energy radiating off that body.
The figure stepped into the pool of yellow light.
Charla.
She looked wrecked. The designer dress from the police station was torn at the shoulder and stained with something dark. Her hair was matted. Her eyes were wide and rimmed with red, the pupils blown enormous.
𝗟𝗮𝘁𝗲s𝗍 𝖼𝗁aр𝗍𝗲𝘳𝘀 𝗼ո ѕ.c𝘰𝘮
“Going somewhere?” Charla hissed, her voice scratchy, as though she had been screaming for hours.
Cailin froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs — a frantic bird hurling itself against a cage.
“Ashley, get inside! Lock the doors!” Cailin shouted.
Ashley didn’t ask questions. She shoved Elia fully into the seat and slammed the door. The lock engaged with a solid thud.
Charla took a step forward. Her hand emerged from the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie. Metal glinted in the dim light — a switchblade, its stiletto point wickedly sharp. The kind of cheap, brutal weapon bought in a back alley rather than a boutique. She must have paid off a runner the moment she was released. She flicked her wrist and the blade snapped open with a terrifying click.
“You ruined my life,” Charla said, taking another step. She wasn’t walking — she was stalking. “Everything was perfect. I was going to be Mrs. Holloway. I was going to be the Queen p>
“You kidnapped my goddaughter!” Cailin shouted, backing away slowly. She let her purse drop. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. She didn’t need it. She needed her hands free.
“She’s a bastard,” Charla sneered, waving the blade. “She shouldn’t exist. You shouldn’t exist p>
Cailin measured the distance between them. Six feet. Too close to run. If she turned her back to open the car door, Charla would be on her before the handle clicked.
“Hilliard isn’t here to save you,” Charla laughed — a wet, broken sound. “He’s probably crying in his penthouse. He’s weak. But I’m not p>
“I don’t need him,” Cailin said. Her voice dropped, turning steady. The fear was still there, but it had gone cold now. Useful.
She shifted her stance. Her feet widened. Her hands came up, palms open. The Krav Maga training Kegan had forced on her in Europe surfaced from somewhere beneath the exhaustion. Adrenaline surged through her — a chemical fire that momentarily burned away the pain in her lungs. Muscle memory overrode the pneumonia.
“Come on, then,” Cailin said.
Charla screamed. Not a word — a primal shriek of rage. She lunged, the switchblade driving straight for Cailin’s face.
Charla was fast. Faster than Cailin had expected. The desperation gave her a frantic, jerky speed that was nearly impossible to predict.
She slashed again — a wild, horizontal cut.
Cailin threw her arm up to block, catching Charla’s forearm with her own. But she was a fraction of a second too slow. The tip of the blade snagged her leather jacket sleeve, sliced through the material, and bit into the skin beneath.
A sharp line of fire raced up Cailin’s forearm.
“Mommy p>