THE RAMMING AND KICKING MADE A RACKET, BUT JAKE DID NOT appear at the top of the stairs. I steadied myself, grabbing the banister along the unfinished steps, and pulled myself up toward daylight.
I expected to feel Jake’s meaty hand on my shoulder or my throat any moment, to be pulled back down to his closet of horror. Finally I was at the top step, the door. I turned the handle and thrust myself through the open door.
The light through the window was blinding. I blinked, saw a bracelet of blood clotting on my wrists and hands, the unfinished kitchen. I slowed, seeing and hearing no one. Jake must have gone.
I remembered the Institute, running from Phillip Woods. I could do this. A piece of cake. I was as good as out the door. Molly’d be waiting at home. I’d be there in minutes, in seconds. I was already in the living room, rounding the corner to the hall. The front door was only a few steps away when it opened.
“Yo.”
Jake. There was no sense running. His hand grabbed my wrist, yanking me to him. I cried out in pain. “Hai-ya!”
The voice sounded childlike, not like my own. Jake was holding my wrist, twisting it.
“Hai-ya!” I heard again, certain this time that the voice was not mine. Molly? Jake’s knee buckled and he went down, almost pulling me with him. Stumbling, he reached out to balance, releasing me, and his knife clattered to the floor. I managed to kick it away just as Jake reached for it.
“Fuck,” he yelled. Molly was behind him, kicking Jake’s ankle, the back of his knee.
“Mommy,” she screamed. “Did you see me?”
I was stunned, trying to process what was happening. Molly kicked again. I saw the knife across the room, gleaming on the hardwood floor.
“You little shit,” Jake growled, trying to get hold of Molly. “I’ll kick your sorry ass.”
“I don’t think so.” I leaped at him. No, I flew, fingers extended, aiming at Jake’s eyes. He turned his head away, dodging, so I just poked one eye. Still, he bellowed, writhing with pain, while Molly kept kicking the hell out of the back of his leg. Jake turned in circles, half blinded, trying to catch me or her, and I had the image of a pig roasting on a spit but felt no pity. I slammed my boot into his privates. I kicked so hard my toes hurt. Jake curled into a whimpering ball on the floor, reaching, trying to crawl, even then, for the knife. I ran to pick it up and held it high, ready to strike.
“Molly?” I panted, reaching for her. “My God, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
She ran over and snuggled against me. “I got him. Just like Angela showed me.” She repeated her move, kicking the air to show how she’d toppled Jake. Then, chin wobbling, she burst into tears.