Mary grabbed his wrist with both hands, her fingers clamping down with all the strength she’d built from years of wheelchair use. Her grip was vise-like, and she twisted his arm away from her body with violent efficiency.
Frank grunted in pain and surprise, trying to pull free, but Mary held on, still screaming. They grappled in the confined space, a desperate struggle between a murderer who couldn’t afford witnesses and a woman who refused to die. She heard a satisfying crunch, and if his cry was anything to go by, she had broken one of his fingers.
The syringe tumbled from Frank’s hand, clattering to the tiled floor and rolling into the corner. He lunged for it, but Mary rolled forward in her chair, then heard the crunch of plastic shattering. Clear liquid spread across the floor, the benzodiazepine that would have rendered her unconscious now useless and destroyed.
“Bitch,” Frank snarled, and there was real rage in his voice now. The cold calculation was gone, replaced by fury at being thwarted, at having his carefully laid plans disrupted by a woman he’d underestimated.
He grabbed Mary’s wheelchair, his hands closing on the armrests, trying to tip it. She knew if he dumped her over onto the floor, she’d be even more vulnerable, and he could finish what he’d started with his bare hands if necessary.
But she had trained for this during those hours at LSIMT, learning defensive techniques specifically adapted for wheelchair users. She threw her weight backward to counterbalance his pull and used Frank’s own momentum against him.
Frank stumbled forward, and Mary struck. Her fist connected with his jaw… not as hard as she would have liked from the angle, but hard enough to snap his head back and make him release her chair.
“Help!” Mary screamed, her voice echoing in the enclosed closet as her hand felt as though she had punched a brick wall. “Help! Someone help me!”
Frank recovered quickly, his hand going to his jaw, but his eyes never leaving Mary’s face. The rage there was a terrifying look of a predator who’d been wounded and was now even more dangerous.
“No one can hear you,” Frank said, his voice low and venomous. “The storm, the ship’s engines, the distance between floors… you could scream all night, and no one would come.”
He might be right… walls muffling sound, the storm outside providing additional noise cover. But Mary had a secret… a necklace tied to Bert’s phone. A lifeline signal. She kept screaming anyway, knowing the sound would help anyone around find her.
“Fine,” Frank said, advancing on her again with deadly purpose. “We’ll do this the hard way.”
His hands closed around Mary’s throat.
The sudden attack was brutal and terrifyingly effective. Mary’s hands came up automatically, trying to pry his fingers away, but Frank had leverage and position and rage-fueled strength. His thumbs pressed into her windpipe, cutting off her air, and stars began to dance at the edges of Mary’s vision.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Could only claw at his hands with growing desperation as her consciousness started to slip away like water through her fingers.
No. Not like this. She hadn’t survived a car accident that should have killed her. Hadn’t endured months of painful recovery and learned to build a completely new life. Hadn’t finally found love with Bert just to die in a fucking closet at the hands of a murderer.
She stopped trying to pry his hands away… it wasn’t working, and she wasn’t strong enough to break his grip that way. Instead, her fingers went for his eyes, nails raking across his face, aiming for the vulnerable spots that could make him let go.
He jerked his head back instinctively, releasing one hand from her throat to protect his face. Mary gasped in air, her lungs burning, and used the precious seconds to shove her arms up, breaking his remaining grip while punching him in the balls.
Crying out, he bent over, his hand now clutching his crotch. Tears streamed down his face, and he backed away from her while remaining standing. He moved to the side, then tried to regain his stranglehold while Mary fought with everything she had. Her wheelchair rocked dangerously. Her vision was still spotted from lack of oxygen, and her throat felt like fire, but she kept fighting.
Her fingers found his face again, digging in with desperate strength. Frank shouted in pain and released her throat completely, stumbling backward. Mary sucked in great gasping breaths, each one painful but precious.
Frank touched his face, his fingers coming away bloody from where Mary’s nails had gouged deep scratches down his cheek. He looked at the blood on his hand, then at Mary, and his expression transformed into something that made her blood run cold.
This was the face of a man who’d killed before and would kill again. No remorse. A man with nothing left to lose.
“I was going to make it look like a medical emergency,” Frank said quietly, his voice deadly calm. “I was going to let you live, unconscious but alive. But now?” He smiled, and it was the smile of a predator who’d decided to stop playing with his prey. “Now I’m going to kill you, dump your body overboard during the storm, and disappear before anyone realizes you’re gone.”
He advanced on her again, and Mary knew with terrible certainty that this time, he wouldn’t stop. This time, he was going to kill her.
She grabbed her wheels, preparing to ram him again, to fight with everything she had left even though she knew it might not be enough. Her arms were tired, her throat was damaged, her body was exhausted from the adrenaline and fear and violence.
But she wouldn’t stop fighting. Wouldn’t give up. Wouldn’t let Frank win. Suddenly, the shouts of others calling her name grew louder, getting closer.
“Fuck!” Frank cursed, kicking her chair to the side before jerking the door open. With a final look over his shoulder at her, he turned and raced down the hall.
She would have fallen to her side, but the closet wall stopped her descent. Her ribs hit the wheelchair arm as her head hit the wall. She heard footsteps running and voices calling for her. And she sat, slumped in her wheelchair in the closet, her hands shaking uncontrollably, her throat on fire, her body aching from the fight.
She’d survived. Barely, desperately, but she’d survived.
But Frank was loose on the ship. Frank, who now knew they’d figured out his identity and gathered evidence against him. Frank, who had nothing left to lose and every reason to run. Frank, who might decide that killing Diane was necessary before jumping ship.