Two steps to the hallway. Stop. Wait.
Light edged into view. They were coming back.
I glued myself to the wall, no time to do anything else.
They passed by the foyer into the kitchen.
I held my breath and sidled across the hall a half dozen steps behind them. It was a man, tall with rounded shoulders, wearing a similar outfit to mine. Black on black. He swept his beam of light around the kitchen and clicked it off.
Then I was to the stairs and going down.
Staying close to the wall so they wouldn’t squeak.
Pulse pounding in my ears, head filled with helium and floating away.
Last step. Over to the door. Finally letting myself inhale. I grabbed the knob, eased the door open, shot one last look behind me up the stairs.
He was there, three steps down from the top. A deeper shade of black in the stairwell except for the glint of steel in one hand in the distinct shape of a gun.
We stayed that way for a second, an amber moment of time, each of us settling into our designated next moves.
I bolted out the door.
He followed.
Across the yard and I cut a hard right, angling into the next property. In between each heartbeat, I waited to hear the shot. The bullet would be white hot and drive me onto my knees and face, and I’d die tasting someone else’s perfect lawn.
No shot came, and I launched myself over a kid’s toy car that appeared out of the gloom, throwing a glance over one shoulder.
He was right there, running hard. Gaining.
No more looking back. Not if I wanted to live, not if I wanted to see the sun rise tomorrow. Not if I ever wanted to see Rachel and the boys again.
Head down, I ran.
Up around the side of the house, onto the sidewalk, then jagging left before I could sprint into a streetlight’s glow. Because we hadn’t seen each other’s faces yet. That was the one and only thing I had going for me. He didn’t know who I was, and I didn’t know him. If I saw him and he ran off, okay. Maybe I could ID him, maybe not. If he saw me or chased me to my house, he could let me go and come back at a later date of his choosing and shoot me in my sleep.
Or shoot my dad.
I couldn’t go home.
Across the darkest part of the street and up the hill toward the church. Hard right again, gaining speed and momentum until I was flying, feet there just as a formality to keep me in the air.
The hard line of shadowed trees and brush loomed, and I hurtled toward it. My salvation. I could lose myself in there. Lose my pursuer.
Branches and newly green leaves raked my face. Brush scratched and tried to tangle my legs. I didn’t slow down. Ducking around trees and changing directions, first angling left, then right.
Up an incline, feet thrashing through fallen leaves and snapping sticks. I sounded like a bull moose plowing through the undergrowth, easy to track, but that was okay. As long as I kept moving, kept going deeper into the woods, there was a better chance the murderer would decide to turn around and leave me be.
At least I hoped.
The shape of a deadfall sprang out of the dark and caught me midthigh. I somersaulted over it and tucked my shoulder enough to roll back to my feet on the other side. Hot hammers of pain pounded my legs where I’d hit the tree. I ignored them and slid down a steep embankment.
I knew where I was.
We’d played here as kids. Cory had shown us the little hollow nestled between two larger hills the first time, but after that, Emma, Kel, and I came here on our own frequently. We’d try to leave Cory behind, but most times it didn’t work. He was the oldest and fastest, and he’d shown us this place. The little stream winding down through the trees with its dark pebbles. The soft banks of sand you could lean against and let the sun’s heat, collected there from the day, seep into your back. The massive hollow tree at the top valley we’d made into our clubhouse.
The clubhouse.
I hit the stream much sooner than I thought I would. Stumbling through it, wetting my pants all the way up to my crotch. Then I was on the other side, climbing the bank, fingers clawing at loose soil and rock, pulling myself up onto level ground.
I risked stopping and leaned against a tree. Each breath snagged in my lungs like a series of fishhooks. Over my ragged breathing, I listened.
Nothing.
Quiet.
Nothing.
Burble of the stream.
Branches snapping, feet crunching gravel and stones on the far side of the water.
Go.
I hurried across the spine of a ridge and thanked whatever power spun the universe on its axis the way was mostly clear. My footfalls went from thunder to the padding of a cat.
A few more yards and the clubhouse would appear. A few more yards. A few more.