Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

Julia took the opportunity to spin, nearly breaking free. Then the arm was around her, crushing more cruelly than before.
    As they shifted, Julia saw their reflections in the dresser mirror. Her own pale, frightened face glared back through her tears, the black glove gagging her.
    Behind her grappled the man in the hood. It was the gray hood of a jogging pullover, not a hood from her dreams. He wasn't one of the bad people from the past.
    Just a miserable, pathetic, run-of-the-mill Creep.
    Maybe that’s your answer, God.
    Julia relaxed her legs, letting him hold her full weight for a moment. Then she snapped upright and tried to squirm away. He held her firmly, though, and used the momentum to flop her onto the bed.
    He pulled his hand from her mouth, but before she could draw in enough air to scream, he cupped his other hand over her lips. He rolled her onto her side, pinning her between his knees.
    Julia flailed her legs as he sat on her thighs, his elbow digging into her chest. She could smell him, sweat and a raw animal scent, and beneath that, a faint, familiar, sweet aroma.
    She looked at his face, but saw only the bright glint of eyes through the hood's opening. He wore some sort of ski mask beneath the hood.
    Her free fist pounded his back. She may as well have been punching a sack of mud.
    The Creep hissed under his breath, a harsh, evil sound. "Bitch!"
    He wrenched her shoulder until she was flat on her back, his palm crushing her lips. The elbow on her chest pressed harder, and Julia thought her ribs would crack. Then the pressure eased and the arm moved away and Julia heard the sound of a zipper.
    She wedged her knee toward his crotch. No good. She couldn't even turn her head away. All she could do was close her eyes, run for the long darkness inside.
    Surrender.
    Just like always.
    The Creep forced her dress up, exposing her panties.
    Gloved fingers tugged at the elastic.
    No. Surrender isn’t an option this time.
    She wriggled, grappling for the edge of the mattress, the headboard, even a pillow. His odor came again, the offal of his lurid excitement. Pungent sweat and–
    And cologne.
    Jovan Musk.
    The brand she’d bought him for Christmas.
    Mitchell?
    She glanced at the gap of skin between glove and sleeve and saw the Rolex.
    Oh my God, it's MITCHELL.
    Mitchell, who could have his pick of smartly dressed, curvaceous beauties, who could go down to his country club in Colliersville and have a woman undressing within the hour. Mitchell, who could afford the highest class of call girl if he wanted to get his rocks off.
    Mitchell.
    A Creep.
    Mitchell must have seen the recognition dawning on her face. She couldn't disguise the horror, no matter how deeply she fled into the inner darkness. And her anger fueled her, allowed her to twist beneath him, get one knee planted, and simultaneously drive up and away from him.
    He bellowed in rage as she slipped from his grasp, her blouse ripping and a button popping free. The slack gained by the torn cloth allowed her to reach the nightstand and grab the neck of the heavy wooden lamp.
    Betrayed.
    Always goddamned betrayed.
    What had she ever done to deserve betrayal?
    Easy. She’d opened the door and let someone into her heart. Trust was a sucker’s game.
    But her heart was cold now, and so was her nerve.
    She slammed the lamp against him, the awkward swing knocking the lampshade against his head and swiping back his hood. The blow stunned him more than hurt him, but Julia seized the opening and spun to her feet, the lamp raised like a club.
    You’re throwing a curveball but I’m knocking this bastard out of the park.
    This seemed like the absurd but logical conclusion to their eight-year relationship. The final swing in the bottom of the ninth. Bases loaded. And the game was over.
    Not from blushing, fumbling first kiss to cold, uncaring abandonment. Rather, the end would be a farewell of malice, a last touch that left scars.
    A good-bye that bled.
    Mitchell shoved himself to the far side of the bed, perhaps recalling the power of her tennis stroke, or maybe just considering how a bruised face might look in the courtroom next week. She stared into those specks of light that marked his eyes.
    Julia worked her jaw sideways, scraping her tongue against her teeth to remove the bitter taste of leather.
    "Why?" she asked, not allowing the lamp to dip an inch though it quivered in her anger.
    He batted the gray hood back and jerked the ski mask off his head. His