Forty-Two
Katty inched in front of Bea.
Every breath a gasp.
Prickles of fear crawled across her shoulders.
Bea climbed up Katty's legs. Her arms strangled Katty's neck.
"I said. Who do we have here?" Phil leaned forward in the old green recliner.
The room grew cold.
Katty's gut wrenched. "Phil. You're b-back." She slid another foot.
"Yeah, I'm back."
God he looked evil. Or she'd changed. His muscular good looks used to excite her.
She kicked a grocery bag, slid the other foot toward the kitchen.
Coughing, she edged toward the counter, Bea clinging. The knife she had used to cut an apple at breakfast was still in the sink. She let her arm dangle there, slid the knife along her skin under her sleeve and hid it behind her back, wincing.
"Whatcha thinkin' little darlin'?" he whisp
