Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11) - Linda Castillo Page 0,2

her hips. Behind her, Elsie was making a valiant effort to juggle walnuts and not having very much luck.

“You just mind those walnuts,” she told them. “I’m taking a quick peek at Mrs. Schattenbaum’s kitchen.”

“Can we come?”

“I’ll only be a minute. You girls get back to work or we’ll be here till dark.”

Mary waited until the girls resumed their task and then crossed the porch, set her hand against the door. The hinges groaned when she pushed it open. “Hello? Is someone there?”

Memories assailed her as she stepped inside. She recalled peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches at the big kitchen table. Mrs. Schattenbaum stirring a pot of something that smelled heavenly on the stove. Sneaking chocolate-chip cookies from the jar in the cupboard. The old Formica counters were still intact. The pitted porcelain sink. The stove was gone; all that remained was a gas line and rust stains on the floor. Rat droppings everywhere. Some of the linoleum had been chewed away.

Mary was about to go to the cabinet, to see if that old cookie jar was still in its place, when a sound from the next room stopped her. Something—or someone—was definitely in there. Probably whatever had chewed up that flooring, she thought. A raccoon or possum. Or a rat. Mary wasn’t squeamish about animals; she’d grown up on a farm, after all. But she’d never liked rats.…

She glanced out the window above the sink. Annie was pitching walnuts baseball style. Elsie was using a stick as a bat. Shaking her head, Mary chuckled. Probably best not to leave them alone too long.…

Turning, she went to the doorway that opened to the living room. It was a dimly lit space filled with shadows. The smells of mildew and rotting wood laced the air. The plank floors were badly warped. Water stains on the ceiling. Wallpaper hung off the walls like sunburned skin. Curtains going to rot.

“Who’s there?” she said quietly.

A sound to her right startled a gasp from her. She saw movement from the shadows. Heard the shuffle of shoes against the floor. Someone rushing toward her …

The first blow landed against her chest, hard enough to take her breath. She reeled backward, arms flailing. A shock of pain registered behind her ribs, hot and deep. The knowledge that she was injured. All of it followed by an explosion of terror.

Something glinted in the periphery of her vision. A silhouette coming at her fast. She saw the pale oval of a face. She raised her hands. A scream ripped from her throat.

The second blow came from above. Slashed her right hand. Slammed into her shoulder and went deep. Pain zinged; then her arm went numb. It wasn’t until she saw the shiny black of blood that she realized she’d been cut. That it was bad.

Mewling, she stumbled into the kitchen, trying to put some distance between her and her attacker. He followed, aggressive and intent. The light hit his face and recognition kicked. Another layer of fear swamped her and she thought: This can’t be happening.

“You!” she cried.

The knife went up again, came down hard, hit her clavicle. Pain arced, like a lightning strike in her brain. The shocking red of blood, warm and wet on her arms, her hands, streaming down the front of her dress, splattering the floor.

And in that instant she knew. Why he’d come. What came next. The realization filled her with such horror that for an instant, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Then she turned, flung herself toward the door, tried to run. But her shoe slipped in the blood; her foot went out from under her, and she fell to her knees.

She twisted to face him, looked up at her assailant. “Leave her alone!” she screamed. “In the name of God leave her alone!”

The knife went up. She lunged at him, grabbed his trousers, fisting the fabric, yanking and slapping. Hope leapt when he staggered sideways. The knife slammed into her back like a hammer blow. A starburst of pain as the blade careened off bone. Her vision dimmed. No breath left. No time.

Her attacker raised the knife. Lips peeled back. Teeth clenched and grinding.

She scrambled to her feet, threw herself toward the window above the sink, and smashed her hand through the glass. Caught a glimpse of the girls.

“Run!” she screamed. “Da Deivel!” The Devil. “Run! Run!”

Footfalls sounded behind her. She looked over her shoulder. A flash of silver as the knife came down, slammed into her back like an ax. White-hot pain streaked up