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I visualize the spacious room. It’s easy. Facing the couch is the massive floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace that separates the living room from the billiards room and the backyard. An idea comes to me. It’s risky, but it’s the only chance I’ve got.
Stealthily, I crawl to the fireplace, praying I won’t be shot by the psychopath. When I feel the cold, rough stone against my palms, I know I’ve reached it. Just to the left of the hearth is a set of fireplace tools. As quietly as possible, I get into a kneeling position and grapple with them until I find the iron poker. I lift it out of the stand. I have a weapon.
And then I do one other thing. I make a life-or-death decision. The hardest decision I’ve had to make in my entire life.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna do something absurd…
I retrieve my iPhone from the pocket of my sweats. It’s charged and still working. As much as I want to hold on to it, I can’t. Hoping Marley won’t hear me, I talk into it. Keeping my voice low.
“Siri, play Michael Bublé.”
Instantly, the crooner’s soothing voice comes through the speaker. I adjust the volume so that it can barely be heard above the pounding rain and howling wind.
Hush, little baby, don’t you cry…
I say a silent prayer. And my baby quiets.
With the help of the poker, I stand up and make my way to the pitch-black billiards room. I know now what it feels like to be blind, especially now that I’m using the poker like a walking stick in the utter darkness. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. I locate the green-felted table and navigate it, clinging to the smooth mahogany edges, until I reach the middle. Stacking the poker against the table, I fold myself over it, wincing from my wounded shoulder, and reach for the triangular rack of balls in the center. Dragging it across the felt, I gather up as many of the numbered, color-coded balls as I can and stuff them into the pockets of my sweats. Six in total.
My pockets loaded, I grab the poker and head to the sliding glass doors that lead to the pool and backyard. Despite the power outage, I can see sheets of rain lashing against the panes. Facing me is a sea of blackness. An infinity. The outdoor lights are out, too, including those that light up the pool. The house’s all-around surveillance cameras must also be out. A wash of relief. No one, including the police, will be able to see what comes next.
Balancing the poker between my legs, I try to slide open the doors with both hands. No matter how much I exert myself, they won’t budge. I jiggle the lock, but it’s jammed.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I murmur to myself.
And finally, it gives. My fingers are sore. My shoulder throbs.
With a grunt, I shove one of the doors open, and I’m immediately assaulted by a violent blast of wind and rain. I mentally call it Hurricane Ava. I’m strong, I’m fierce. Battling the elements, I dash outside with the poker, and in a matter of moments, I’m soaked to the bone. The cold rain pelts me like a spray of bullets, and I shiver as I shield the baby carrier, which gets drenched too.
“I’m coming for you!” I hear Marley yell. “Your life is over, Ava! Your baby is mine!”
Without slowing down, I take in the yard. I can barely see a thing. There must be a city-wide power outage as neither the twinkling lights of The Valley below nor those of downtown LA to the east shine.
Only the slightest sliver of moonlight enables me to see the outline of the black-bottom pool. Steely raindrops bombard the water, threatening it to overflow.
Carefully navigating the slippery, wet flagstones that surround the pool with the help of the poker as the rain pummels my skin and the gusting wind threatens to carry me away, I, one by one, toss the billiard balls onto the slick pavement, hoping that one of them will work its magic. I remind myself that Marley’s avoided the yard with her fear of heights. She’s not familiar with it. I have an advantage.
Without glancing back, I work my way to the edge of the property, my heart slamming against my ribcage. Halfway there, an outdoor umbrella comes flying at me, and a shriek slices the air.
FIFTY-FIVE
MARLEY
I’m not sure if a bullet struck her, but I know Ava is out here somewhere with my baby. My sweet, beautiful Mia.
The rain coming down on me like shards of glass, I survey the yard. I can’t see a thing except the silhouette of a palm tree that’s swaying madly in the fierce wind. That and the knife in my hand.
My blood pounding, a wash of fear pours over me. What if I take a misstep and fall into the pool? I told Ava I could swim, but the truth is I can’t. And what if I fall and crack my head? And there’s this: The property is on a bluff and I can’t see two feet in front of me. What if I accidentally step over the edge and fall to my death?
My heart hammers as I carefully, blindly navigate the wet, slippery yard, listening for any sign of Ava and my baby.
“Ava,” I call out, “I’ve got a gun. You don’t stand a chance.” I’m bluffing her, but I’m sure the gullible bitch will fall for it. “Just give me my baby, and I’ll let you live.”
I won’t.
I take a few steps to the right when suddenly I slip on something and lose my balance. Flailing my arms, there’s nothing I can do to break my fall. I can feel my heart in my throat, my equilibrium thrown off. With a shriek, I tumble to the wet pavement, falling hard on my knees and hands. My latex gloves shredded, my soaked sweats torn, I feel the sting of raw, scraped skin crawl up my limbs. For a split second, I long to cry out to my sister or my mother to come help me. To carry me to safety and lovingly bandage my wounds.
A clap of thunder catapults me back to the moment. The knife is still in my hand, and I’m grateful I didn’t stab myself. Painfully, I crouch, my knees burning through the holes in my sweats, and then place my raw palm, the one not gripping the knife, against the cold wet pavers to boost me to standing.
