Nine Lives by Sharon Sala Page B

out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.
    Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.
    She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.
    â€œWhat the—”
    It was her daddy’s voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn’t go skiing if Daddy was hurt.
    When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.
    â€œDaddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.
    She started to scream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she’d hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.
    â€œBitch!” he screamed.
    Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.
    At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.
    Suddenly she was falling.
    At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she’d been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.
    She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.
    She tried to scream, but when she inhaled, she choked.
    Her father fell lifelessly to the floor as the assailant jumped over him and ran to the front door. Catherine watched him disappear into the night as she waited to die.
    Over and over, she struggled to breathe, then finally, blessedly, everything went dark.
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    Cat sat straight up in bed, choking and coughing and grabbing her throat, certain that her hands would come away covered in blood. Instead, all she felt was the hard ridge of scar, followed by the certainty that, although she was in her bedroom, she was not alone.
    She rolled toward the bedside table, pulling a handgun from the drawer as she turned on the lamp.
    Wilson had been dozing in a small, overstuffed chair, but the sudden brightness, coupled with the fact that he was now staring down the barrel of a gun, was better than any alarm clock he’d ever owned.
    â€œDon’t shoot,” he said quickly. “It’s me, Wilson McKay.”
    Cat was breathing hard and shaking as she leaned back against the headboard and let the gun fall in her lap.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”
    He frowned as he eyed the gun lying in her lap.
    â€œPut that thing away,” he muttered, waiting for her to do as he’d asked. When the gun was back in the drawer, he answered. “You nearly passed out in the parking lot of the police department. Good Samaritan that I am, I brought you home, then held you in the parking lot while you threw up on my shoes.”
    â€œOh Lord,” Cat muttered, but Wilson seemed bothered that she’d pulled a gun on him and wouldn’t stop talking. If he only knew how badly her head was pounding, he would shut the hell up. Trouble was, she couldn’t focus enough to tell him.
    â€œYour neighbors in 6E helped me get you inside the apartment. I put you to bed and gave you some pills—which have obviously broken your fever, because you’re back to your normal bitchy self.”
    Cat fell back against the pillows,