Page 147 of The Frozen River

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Faster and faster and faster my heart beats.

Smell and memory are linked together. Nothing conjures the latter like the former. And now, my entire being is seized with a memory from thirty-five years ago. Billy Crane. The shed. Four horrendous minutes with my face shoved into the dirt.

“I knew you were scared,” North says.

And I cannot deny it. The proof is there in the rapid rise and fall of my chest. The breath that I cannot force into submission. I can hear the blood rushing through my ears, like a river that has broken loose from winter’s grip. Raging. Violent. I know what is coming. My body is aware. It remembers. And it will not be calmed.

I lurch toward Ephraim’s worktable when North takes that first step in my direction. He is faster than I am with a sprained ankle, and he catches me by the hair. Yanks me backward, hard.

I scream.

The pain is so startling that the sound has escaped my lips before I realize I’ve drawn the breath to cry out. Cicero jumps to his feet again. Growls. Inches forward. I sound wounded, like an animal. I sound like prey, and he salivates at the noise.

North winds his fingers through my hair. Pulls me closer. Whispers.

“What a pretty penny this would have earned.”

“Let go of me!” I scratch at his hands.

“Oh no. You are going to be quiet about this. While I’m doing it, and afterward. You’ll not say a word, because no one will believe you. They’ll think it’s some bit of petty revenge, just your way of getting back at me after losing in court.”

No one will believe you.

It’s the line spoken by every man who has ever used a woman in this way. The trouble is that so often they are right. But I am angry now, and I do not want to be used in any way by Joseph North. There is only a foot between us, and we are near the same height, so I do the only thing that I am able. I tilt forward as though trying to move, and when he grips my hair tighter, I smash my head backward into his face.

It is North’s turn to scream. Then he grunts. Curses. He drops my hair and clutches at his bleeding nose.

When he lets go, I dive for the worktable, scrambling for Ephraim’s wicked, curved blade. Revenge. Hilt in hand, I turn. The knife feels heavy in my palm. Unwieldy.

“You aren’t going to kill me,” he says, laughing.

And it’s that arrogance—the certainty—that enrages me. “I have no intention of killing you.”

Even though I could.

“Then put down your toy and take what’s coming to you.”

I grip the knife tighter, lift the blade, and slash the air. Just once. Just close enough that he flinches and raises his arm to block me. Revenge cuts a clean swath through his sleeve. A three-inch slit that exposes the skin of his wrist.

North looks at it, stupefied.

“You stupid, little c—”

“Don’t touch me.”

I swipe again, and he stumbles backward this time. Two steps. He nearly trips over his pants, and it’s enough that I can maneuver into a better position. Press my hips against the worktable. Support my weight.

Anger. Fear. Both mingle to make my voice unreliable. I do not want to sound weak, so I clear my throat. Even so, it is better to reply one word at a time. “You. Will. Not. Touch. Me.”

“I don’t take orders from women,” he says. And then he lunges, hands out as though he would take me by the throat and throttle me.

I drop down.

Ignore the blinding pain that cascades through my knees when they hit the floor.

Lean forward at a slight tilt.

And bring my arm down in a quick, purposeful slash, just as his hands grab hold of thin air.