Away. I have to get away. Sharylynn struggled with a heavy, drug-induced sleep and forced herself to groggy consciousness. Where was she? Images assaulted her. More importantly, where was Hal? Panic made her heart race.

Blood beating in her ears, she clambered from the mushy twin bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, and winced at the stiffness in her muscles. Dust motes floated in the rays of sunlight that seeped through the cracks in the curtains. The room smelled musty, as though the house had been closed for a long time.

Where was she? Where had Hal taken her? What city?

Thank God Hal had removed the duct tape from her wrists and ankles. Fighting dizziness, Sharylynn staggered to the window. A house. Two story. She strained to hear through faint traffic noises.

Was that a siren she heard in the distance? The pulse beating in her ears quickened. She turned to take in her surroundings. An upstairs bedroom. The window was wide enough for her to squeeze through, but it was painted shut. No phone. Whatever Hal’s delusions, he wasn’t stupid. Sharylynn fought nausea.

How long had she been drugged? More importantly, where was Hal? Since he’d kidnapped her from the sidewalk in front of her apartment, he’d never left her unguarded. Why now?

Thank God she was still dressed in jeans and a shirt, but where were her shoes? She shrugged. Shoes were the least of her worries. Opening a door near her, she winced at the creak. A moldy smell assaulted her, followed by the desperate scrambling of some small creature. Closet. Was that movement she heard? Hal’s heavy, awkward tread on the stairs?

Mouth dry, she opened another door, wincing lest it creak like the first one. A back stairway. Light-footed, she scampered to the top of the stairs and paused only a second. The words thrummed in her head. Away. I have to get away.

Shuddering at suffocating memories of Hal’s clammy hands, she sneaked down the stairs. Her breath caught when two of the steps groaned.

The back door, directly opposite the straight, steep staircase, stood a scant inch ajar. Freedom, and so close. She stopped and tried to will her heart to stop hammering, then strained to hear any sound of movement. Nothing. Just a few precious feet, a few more seconds and she’d have a real chance. She crept forward.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Hal’s fingers gripped her upper arm. One swift jerk and he spun her around. Before she could gasp for enough breath to scream, he backhanded her. Pain blinded her. Sharylynn tasted her own brackish blood as he shoved her backwards against a kitchen cabinet.

The edge of the counter dug into her back. Tears of rage rose in her eyes. Damn him! Damn him for being stronger than she was.

His huge hands clutching handfuls of her shirt, he jerked her face close to his. Her stomach turned at the smell of stale whiskey and cigarettes.

"Stupid woman!" With one hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked. His dark eyes took on a look of glassy madness. A vein in his neck pulsed. "I’ll kill you before I let you go."

She shook her head, mute. Her lips formed a single syllable. No.

Again and again he swung at her. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth. Fear began to choke her. She knew what he intended, but it wouldn’t happen. I’ll die first.

Holding a fistful of hair, Hal swung again.

Desperate to find a weapon, she groped behind her on the counter. A wooden handle. Knowing she’d have only one chance, she clenched her fingers around the knife’s handle. Fear pumped adrenaline. Hoping to catch him off guard, she sprang forward and with thickly varnished nails, gouged at his eyes.

Instinctively, he jumped backwards. "By God," he ground out, "I will kill you!"

Off-balance, Sharylynn thrust the knife square into his chest. Hal staggered backwards, both hands clutching at the handle protruding from his chest.

Even before he hit the floor, Sharylynn fled the house at a dead run. Though it was late summer, the air outside was brisk, almost chilly. She darted between two parked cars and across the street. Away. I have to get away.

Two blocks farther, two matronly women came out of a house. About to beg for help, she saw their censorious frowns. No. They wouldn’t believe her. Would anyone? Had she even been reported missing?

Ignoring the rocks and pebbles that ripped at her feet like dull knives, she kept running, her legs finding the rhythm of the only prayer her drugged mind could compose. Please, God. Please, God. Once, she twisted her ankle on the uneven sidewalk and went sprawling, the sidewalk scraping off layers of skin and flesh from her hands, arms and elbows.

A couple came out of a home, but seeing this bloody, battered woman lying sprawled on their sidewalk, could only stare in open-mouthed astonishment. Then, they looked away.

The sound of running feet in the alley startled her. Sharylynn scrambled to her feet. Blindly, she continued to run. Block after block. Finally, out of breath, she crouched between parked cars to rest.

Her head ached horribly. How long had Hal kept her drugged? Where was she? What city? Had Hal mumbled something about Seattle? Could they really have made it that far from Denver? She smelled salt water. The ocean. San Francisco?

Then, she spotted a black and white police cruiser. Seattle Police Department. Gasping for breath, adrenaline fading, relief flowed through her and made her weak. She bit back a sob. Damn weakness, and damn Hal Griner. Legs trembling, unable to flee any longer, she ran into the street.

"Stop!" she screamed, waving her arms as the officer swerved to keep from hitting her. If he, too, turned away, she’d leap onto his windshield.

With a squeal of tires, he stopped. The car door opened.

"Help me," she whispered as tears finally broke through.

The officer jumped from his car. "What the devil--"

She grabbed two handfuls of his shirtfront, and almost wept when the fabric slid through her grasp. She would have sunk onto the street if he hadn’t grabbed her. Somehow, she had to make him understand.

"I think," she sobbed, "I think I just killed a man."

An hour later, she sat trembling in a tiny room down the hall from the Emergency Center, knees raised to her chest, studying the heels of both hands. Physically, she’d be fine. Five stitches had closed the gash Hal’s ring had cut over her eye. Though she knew she’d most likely wake up the next morning with a black eye, her nose wasn’t broken. Her bruises would heal, the doctor said. She was young and strong. Soon, her body would shake off the effects of the drugs Hal had forced down her throat. Or so they said.

A detective came in and flung himself onto a chair opposite her. He cast her a quick, measuring glance, then focused his attention on his paperwork. "When the officers arrived at the house, Griner was gone."

"Gone?" she asked, incredulous. "How could he be gone?" Her earlier relief drained away. Fear re-surged in her. Would it ever be over? She clutched the blanket closer around her shoulders. The cold, damp Seattle air had seeped into her bones. She started to shiver.

The detective’s voice droned on. "We found the knife and a trail of blood from the kitchen out the back door, but the trail stops in the driveway." Frowning, he shook his head. "I don’t know how he got away, but he did."

Her mind whirled. "It’s not possible," she whispered.

He read the report in front of him. "You say he’s been stalking you for years--"

"The New York City and Denver police have the reports."

"They’re faxing them to us."

She leaned back against the chair. God, Hal was alive. But how? She fought tears and weakness. What if he found her again?

The man gave her a curious look. "Do you understand me? He got away."

She nodded. She couldn’t go back to Denver, and New York was where she’d first met Hal. She wouldn’t be safe there, either. She’d never be safe while Hal Griner was alive. She couldn’t even perform. Hal Griner knew everyone in the ballet community, had connections everywhere. Hal Griner would come after her again, and eventually he’d find her. Damn him for living. "Oh, God." Sharylynn buried her face in her hands. Why?

Long minutes later, a woman stuck her head in the door.

"We contacted Yuri at Denver Ballet. He said to tell you he’s bringing you clothes and your purse."

Soon, she’d have identification. Money and credit cards. Now, she had no more identity than a stray mongrel puppy. Sharylynn rubbed at the sticky glue the duct tape had left. They’d taken her clothes as evidence and given her a pair of green hospital scrubs to wear. She stared down at the sneakers the nurse had dug out of the lost and found box. Though they were a size too large, she was grateful. She wouldn’t have to step onto the plane, to somewhere, barefoot. Away. I have to get away.