Read Online The Wreckage: A Thriller by Michael Robotham - Free Book Online Page B

the living room. The sofas have been disemboweled.
    Drawers pul ed out. Furniture broken. Clothing scattered. A pressure band tightens around her skul .
    Stepping across the threshold she can see through the partial y opened door of the bedroom. The mattress is no longer on the bed.
    Then she sees the chair. Zac sitting upright, his skin slick with blood, his arms bound behind him, his feet tethered together at his ankles. His eyes open at the sound of her cry. She wants to go to him, but he mouths a word through broken lips.
    She stops.
    He says it again.
    “Run!”
    As Hol y turns she catches a glimpse of a hand reaching for her. She ducks, fal ing, scrambling on her knees. The hand comes again. She knocks it away, scuttling backwards, kicking with her legs.
    “I don’t like hurting a woman, but I have made exceptions,” says the shadow.
    Hol y tries to scream. No sound comes out.
    “Where is it?”
    “What?”
    “You took something that wasn’t yours.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    He grabs her by the hair with both his hands and begins to spin, forcing Hol y to run in circles. She grabs at his wrists to take pressure off her scalp. Faster and faster he spins, final y letting go, flinging her across the room where she ricochets off a wal and crumples. She tries to crawl away. He keeps coming. Amid the debris her fingers close around something cold and heavy. A saucepan. Cast-iron.
    He grips her ankle and tries to drag her back to the bedroom. She kicks. He has her hair again. Lifting her. She swings the saucepan into his face. Blood sprays from his mouth. The man picks a broken tooth from inside his cheek and stares at it like he’s found a penny in a Christmas pudding.
    Twisting her wrist he forces Hol y to her knees and the saucepan drops from her fingers. Hol y bunches her fist and swings, driving her knuckles into his groin. He doubles over and groans. It’s an animalist sound. Picking up the saucepan she hits him again across the side of the head. He staggers and raises his gun hand. Tries to focus. Pul s the trigger. The bul et hits the wal behind her.
    Hol y runs. She’s smal and agile. Four years of gymnastics. Seven years of running from her father. At the door, along the walkway, at the top of the stairs, letting gravity carry her down. Almost out of control. Zac’s face in her mind, his body broken.
    Reaching the ground floor, she hurls herself at the fire door, which bangs open. She’s almost to the road. There are cars. Lights. People. Somebody steps in front of her. She can’t stop. Her arms fold across her head, bracing for a col ision.
    “Gotcha!”

    The girl is screaming hysterical y, fighting at his arms, scratching at his face; her cheeks streaked with tears and snot.
    Nothing Ruiz says seems to make any difference. Holding her firmly, he tel s her to settle down. Getting rougher. He slaps her hard across the face and then holds her tightly, his arms around her chest, her feet off the ground.
    “What’s wrong? What are you so frightened of?”
    Her eyes shoot behind him, looking over his shoulder.
    “He’s got a gun! Run!”
    “Who’s got a gun?”
    She sucks in a breath. “Him. Upstairs. Please, let me go.”
    “Your boyfriend?”
    She shakes her head and tries to pul away from him again. This is not another performance. She’s terrified. Shaking.
    Ruiz takes her to his car and puts her in the front seat.
    “OK. Stay here.”
    “Don’t leave me!”
    “You’re safe.”
    Ruiz crosses the road at a jog and pushes through the fire doors. Looks at the lift. It’s on the third floor. He peers up the central staircase. Concrete. Cold. It’s hard to move quietly.
    He climbs slowly. Counting the floors.
    There is a long walkway, open at one side, overlooking a quadrangle. More concrete. Another set of stairs is at the far end. The flats are numbered, al beginning with “3.” Glancing over the railing, he peers into the darkness. The lights in the