Behind us, the sound of heavy boots approached the kitchen.

“Clear the living room! Move to the back!”

Julian backed me against the sturdy wooden shelves.

A jar of dried bay leaves tipped over, spilling its contents over my shoulder.

“Tell them it was an accident,” Julian hissed, his grip tightening on my throat.

“Tell them Harris was trying to help you.”

“If you don’t, the drive goes to the federal prosecutor tonight.”

My vision started to blur at the edges.

I reached out blindly to my right, my fingers brushing against the cold glass of a large jar of preserved lemons.

I grabbed the lid and twisted my body, swinging the heavy jar with my remaining strength.

I smashed it against the side of his knee.

The glass broke, showering our legs with salted water and thick yellow rinds.

Julian screamed in pain, his leg buckling beneath him.

His grip on my neck loosened, and I slid down the front of the shelves to the floor.

I drew in a massive, burning gulp of air.

On the floor, Julian was clutching his knee, his face contorted in agony.