They both dove for the knife.
Maya's fingers closed around the handle first. She rolled, came up with the blade pointed at him.
The killer stopped, hands raised, smile never wavering. "You going to use that?"
Her hand shook. The knife felt wrong, too heavy, the grip slick with her own blood from the cut on her arm.
I can't. I've never—
"Didn't think so." He took a step closer.
Maya backed up, keeping the blade between them. Her mind raced through options. She couldn't kill him. Couldn't even imagine driving the knife forward. But she could run.
The windows. Too high. The doors. Locked. Think, Maya, think.
Her eyes darted upward. The scoreboard platform hung twenty feet above the gym floor, accessible by a maintenance ladder against the far wall.
"Whatever you're thinking," he said, reading her face, "don't."
Maya threw the knife. Not at him, but past him, toward the opposite corner. He turned instinctively to follow the sound of metal clattering across the floor.
She ran.
