Julian lunged forward again, his hands reaching for my throat.

I swung the skillet with every ounce of strength left in my arms.

The heavy cast iron made a solid, sickening thud as it connected with the side of Julian’s face.

He grunted, his head jerking violently to the left.

The impact sent him stumbling sideways into the edge of the quartz kitchen island.

He hit the stone hard, his hip knocking a stack of ceramic plates to the floor.

They shattered into dozens of white shards on the hardwood.

Julian didn’t fall.

He clutched his jaw, his eyes watering with pain and sudden rage.

Blood began to seep between his fingers, dark and thick in the bright LED under-cabinet lighting.

“You bitch,” he wheezed, his voice muffled by his hand.

At the front of the house, another heavy thud shook the walls.

“State police! Open the door immediately!”

The wood of the front door groaned under a second strike from a battering ram.

Julian looked toward the hallway, then back at me.

His expression twisted into something desperate and feral.

He knew his time was running out.