Unencumbered by whatever force had been holding it there, the chain pulls free in Heather's grasp.

And she wastes no time gathering it up in loops in that free hand, growling, "Trouble is my middle name, lady."

It's as the chain rattles in her hand that an idea pops into her head. More than an idea. A notion. A cruel one.

Straightening up, her fist still buried in Dante's dress, she holds up the chain.

"Why don't you take a WALK with me?"

In swift, brutal jerks, she whips the chain around and around the young woman's neck.