“Who is it?”

“Mr. Johnson.” The voice was muffled.

She still didn’t unlock the door. The building manager had no reason to be there so late. He lived on the first floor and she hardly saw the older man. He kept to himself unless someone broke the rules. She’d parked in her own space. “What do you need?”

“There’s a water leak upstairs,” he muttered low enough that she barely made out the words.

She groaned, twisting locks. A few months before she’d heard about a water pipe breaking on the fourth floor. The dump truck outside hauling away wet drywall had been an eyesore. It was a given it had been more unpleasant for the tenants involved to see that mess inside their homes. The walls involved on two floors had to be ripped away and replaced once the plumbing was updated. She jerked open the door to let him in.

“I haven’t seen any wat—”

It wasn’t a frail body that plowed into her but a solid, big one. It happened so fast that she barely registered what was going on before she was falling, landing on her back on the entry tile. The door slammed and the distinctive sound of a lock clicking drew her out of the pain of having the breath knocked out of her to stare in fear at the man planted between her spread, bare feet.

He wore a gray hoodie that kept most of his features shaded from the light in the living room. His lips were thin and pulled back in a grimace to reveal his teeth. He bent before she could recover and cold fingers wrapped around her throat. They squeezed enough that she wasn’t able to scream. She really wanted to.

“Where have you been, Joyce?”

His voice was familiar as she fought down panic. It registered that the intruder knew about Mr. Johnson and he’d said her name. This wasn’t some random crime.

His other hand fisted her shirt and he dragged her to her unsteady feet. It hurt, choked her, but she was able to get air into her lungs when the fingers eased slightly around her throat. He was about nine inches taller than she and she placed him at about a hundred-eighty pounds. She really hoped this was only a robbery. The other options weren’t ones she wanted to consider.

Everything she’d read or heard about criminals flew through her head as she kept her eyes lowered to stare at his chest. He might not want to kill her if she avoided looking at his face, giving him a sense of security that she couldn’t identify him. Instinct demanded she fight but she resisted. Statistically her chances of survival were better if he deemed her nonthreatening. Of course it depended on his motivation. The fact that he had attacked her in a private location drastically increased her chances of being raped or murdered.

She’d attempt to talk to him but he kept a bruising hold on her throat. It was tough to breathe. Forming sentences would be impossible. Her hands fisted to prevent her from clawing his wrists, something she really wanted to do in hopes of getting free. She knew paying attention was important. Every interaction with him would give her clues on how to proceed.

“Where have you been?” His high-pitched tone implied he was agitated and she was struck by a sense of familiarity. She’d heard that voice somewhere before but couldn’t quite place it. “You just disappeared.”

It was tough not to glance up at his face. She closed her eyes to resist the temptation. What did he mean? He wasn’t rational. Not good.

“I went to your office,” he confessed. “I thought I’d find a clue there to where you went. I drove by your parents’ house and all your friends’ places.”

Joy locked her knees when they threatened to buckle. The situation was far worse than she had suspected if he knew so much about her life. She was the target. The motivation was out of her reach though. Was he someone linked to one of her clients who thought she could be used to somehow gain whatever he wanted from them? Maybe he blamed her for some action one of her clients had taken. A scorned boyfriend or perhaps a family member who feared she had too much influence over the person he loved?

Worse, he could be a former client. There were times she’d counseled someone and they hadn’t meshed. The latest one she’d referred to another doctor had issues with women in general. He’d been easily offended at any spoken word by her and spent the hour putting her down. She’d known it was a lost cause to see him a second time so she’d given him Bill Core’s card. That might have been viewed as rejection though she’d wanted him to be seen by someone he’d feel comfortable talking to.

He spun her around roughly enough to almost knock her over. The hand released her shirt but he kept a firm grip on her throat. One arm wrapped around her middle, jerking her off her feet. He stumbled forward through the living room in the direction of the bedroom, her back pressed against his front. The terror of being raped became a real possibility.

She’d fight. The moment he put her down, all bets were off. The building was older, the walls thick enough to muffle noise from the neighbors, but they might hear her screams. She planned to do a lot of that once she got his hand off her throat. He obviously felt slighted some way by her and had stalked her without her suspecting a thing. Rape wasn’t about sex.

The suitcases would prevent him from throwing her on the bed. He’d have to either kick them off or shove them out of the way. He couldn’t do either, the way he had her pinned. The lamp was a good weapon but so was the heavy art deco statue on her nightstand—a Greek god. The powerful build of the male figure had been a sad reminder of 466. She’d still purchased the thing, even knowing why she was drawn to it.