“Because with a man like Charlie Holsan, you can never turn your back on blood.”

I hang up the phone, my heart in my mouth. It immediately starts ringing again. “You’re sure it’s him?” Pippa asks. She’s asked me this three times already, and I’m starting to get pissed off.

“Yes! Yes, it’s him. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Pippa just gives me a pitying look—she doesn’t understand my panic. Doesn’t feel the full weight of it pressing down on her like it’s currently pressing down on me.

“Here,” she says, holding out her hand. “Give it to me.”

She wants the cell phone, and frankly I’m very keen to get rid of it. I slap the thing into her hand and cover my mouth with my fingertips, watching her to see what she’ll do next. The very last thing I expect her to do is to answer the damn call.

“Dr. Pippa Newan,” she says calmly. Pippa’s face remains controlled, although her eyebrows twitch ever so slightly. I don't know what that means, whether it means anything at all. I just wait, holding my breath.

“I don't think that would be a good idea,” she says calmly. She frowns some more. My heart clatters in my chest like a pair of castanets. She looks at me, eyes filled with sudden surprise. “There really is no need for that kind of language,” she says. “We are well within our rights to deny you access —”

There's a sharp thud at the door, not from the top, as though someone has knocked, but from the bottom as though they've kicked instead. Through the three-inch thick solid wood door, a very bemused voice calls out. “I think you're getting confused, sweetheart. This ain't a fucking traveling door-to-door salesman. This ain't optional. Now open the fucking door.”

Pippa drops the phone from her ear, turning the thing to look at the screen. She blinks at it. “He hung up on me.” She turns her back to me then, a look of mild panic forming on her face—the gravity of the situation finally appears to be hitting her. “I don't think he's going to leave.”

“No kidding.” I hurry over to the counter where my bag is sitting—even through the panic back at Pippa's, Michael had the foresight to shove the thing at me so I didn't leave it behind—and I scramble through the items inside until I come across my own cell phone. I dial Zeth, my hands shaking as I hit the call button.

The number you have called is currently busy. Please hang up and try again later.

Currently busy? Zeth's on the phone. Typical. He's picked now to get a freaking social life? Who the hell could he be talking to? He's already with Michael, the only person who ever seems to call him. I hang up and then immediately dial Michael. His phone isn't busy, but it still doesn't get picked up. “Fuck!” A text message is the next best thing, though not ideal at all.

Get bk here! Now!

A series of heavy bangs rain down on the front door. “Might as well just let me in, Dr Pippa Newan. Me and my boys ain't goin’ nowhere. It would save an awful lot of time and a rather well-made door if you just do what I fuckin’ tell you to.”

There's no way we are opening the door. No way in hell. I cast an eye over the apartment, searching for something appropriately heavy; the sofa that I bled all over last night's probably the most suitable option for what I have in mind. I hurry over and start pushing the thing, leaning my full weight against its considerable size. My shoulder is killing me; I feel sick, like I might pass out again. The wound I received yesterday was nowhere near as bad as it could have been, but it still ran fairly deep. The last thing I should be doing is trying to lift heavy furniture, but it doesn't look like I have much of a choice.

“Don't just stand there staring at me. Get over here!” I shout at Pippa. Her gawking isn't helping anybody. In fact, her stunned inaction is enough to make me want to slap her all over again. She flusters, but then hurries to the other end of the couch, lifting it with me. Between the two of us we can barely get the thing an inch off the ground—it's one of those seriously weighty pieces of furniture with scrolled wooden armrests—but it's enough to awkwardly shuffle it toward the door.

“He's not going to hurt you!” Lacey screams from the other end of the apartment. “He's come for me. Let me out and I'll go with him. He won't touch you, I swear!”

The ferocity of the next series of impacts on the door suggest otherwise; the violence behind them suggests the person on the other side is not a patient, calm or reasonable person. It suggests that when the person on the other side has finally beaten their way through, they're going to keep on hitting things. And, yeah, I really don't want to be one of those things.

I ignore Lacey and address the man on the other side of the door; I address Charlie. “Zeth's on his way here, asshole. I wouldn't want to be here when he gets back!”

There's laughter through the door. “You mean the master of the house ain't at ’ome right now? Well ain't that just peachy. I wouldn't ’ave thought he'd leave his girls unprotected. That don't sound like ’im at all. And I so was ’oping to ’ave a little chat with ’im.”

Crap. It’s likely Charlie suspected Zeth wasn’t here—admittedly, Zeth would have been at the door and shooting everyone in the head at the first sign of trouble—but I’ve just gone and confirmed it for him. Perfect.

“Just let him inside, Sloane. This is none of your business!” Lacey yells.