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My hand is shaking so badly I can barely hold it.

"Stay back!" I shout when a shadow appears at the end of the hallway. "I'm serious. Get out!"

The figure keeps moving toward me. I stumble backward, hitting the counter hard enough to knock a coffee mug onto the floor. It shatters, and the sound makes me flinch.

"Don't come any closer!"

The figure lunges.

I scream, throwing up my arm to protect myself. Something strikes my shoulder, and I react without thinking, thrusting the knife toward the shape coming at me.

There's a horrible resistance against the blade.

Someone cries out.

The figure staggers backward, hits the counter, and collapses onto the kitchen floor.

For several seconds, I stand there with the knife in my hand, unable to comprehend what just happened. My ears are ringing, and my heart is beating so hard I can barely breathe.

Then I smell blood.

"Oh, my God."

I set the knife on the counter and fumble for the light switch. The kitchen floods with light, revealing a beautiful woman lying on my floor, one hand pressed against her side.

Blood is spreading across her cream-colored blouse.

I stabbed her.

I actually stabbed somebody.

"Oh, my God. I'm sorry!" I drop to my knees beside her, my hands hovering uselessly over the blood. "Please don't move. I'm calling for help."

She's staring at me with wide, furious eyes, breathing in short, painful gasps. I grab my phone from where I dropped it near the counter, fumbling through the emergency call with fingers that won't stop shaking.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I stabbed somebody!" The words come pouring out before I can make them sound remotely reasonable. "Somebody was inside my apartment. It was dark, and I thought she was going to hurt me. Oh, God, she's bleeding. Please send somebody."

The dispatcher asks for my address, whether the woman is conscious, and where I've put the knife. I answer as best I can, trying not to panic when the woman makes another horrible sound.

"Help is on the way," the dispatcher assures me. "I need you to stay on the phone. Can you tell where she's injured?"

"Her side. Just below her ribs. There's blood everywhere."

Following the dispatcher's instructions, I grab a clean dish towel and press it against the wound. The woman cries out, catching my wrist with surprising strength.

"Get off me."

"I can't. You're bleeding, and I'm trying to help." Tears blur my vision as I keep pressure on the towel. "I didn't know you were in here. I thought you were going to hurt me."

She stares at me with an expression that makes my skin crawl. There's pain in her eyes, but beneath it is something else.

Hatred.

"Bridget Collins."

My hands almost slip.