I’m running faster and harder than I’ve ever run in my life. My shoes pound the pavement, my chest flames like a furnace stuffed full of coal. My head throbs where it slammed against the car door as the cruiser flipped over. I can’t pay attention to any of that—all I can do is sprint and sprint until I taste blood in my throat.
I’ve been delayed too long.
Mara might already be dead.
19
Mara
The wind hits me like a slap as I run down the steps of the theater.
For once, it actually feels like Christmas Eve.
The air is so cold that my breath comes out in silvery plumes, and my sweat freezes on my skin in an instant. Thick clouds blanket the night sky, blocking out every star.
I’m hurrying up Castro Street, trying to find the right pace where I can stay ahead of Shaw without losing him.
I have to look distraught, which isn’t hard to do. Fighting with Cole was awful. I know we were both playing a part, but it made me feel like shit hearing him speak to me that way, seeing the ugly look on his face. I hated putting Sonia in the middle. I’ll have to apologize to her for that—assuming I’m still alive come morning.
Alone in the dark, this plan seems like madness.
I know Cole is close behind me. In fact, he should be running ahead by now, taking the direct route so he can beat me to the park. I fight the urge to glance back over my shoulder, to check if Shaw is following as well.
I turn left on 16th, slowing my pace just a little. Behaving as if I stormed off in a rage, but I’m cooling down now.
It’s almost midnight. I’ve never seen the streets so empty. I pass several houses with parties in full swing: Christmas lights strung up in the windows, music thudding and people laughing. The sound of merriment from a distance always makes me feel lonely.
No one’s out on the sidewalk with me. Barely any cars drive past. Everybody already got where they’re going.
I’ve almost reached Corona Heights Park.
As I cross Flint Street, I feel the unmistakable sensation of eyes on my back. Every sound becomes painfully acute: the rattle of dry leaves blowing up the street, and the scrape of my boots mounting the curb.
Shaw is behind me. I fucking know it.
I know it because I feel it.
My flesh prickles, the sparkling gown scraping across my skin. The air goes still, the pressure dropping.
I’ve reached the park entrance.
I pause for a moment, at the head of the winding pathway leading into the trees.
If Shaw is watching me, I want him to think I passed this way by chance. And that I’ve only just thought of Cole’s sculpture up on the flat top of the park, almost completed.
I hesitate, shifting my weight back and forth on my feet. As if I know I should continue along my way, but I’m drawn by curiosity. Wanting to see the sculpture in the moonlight.
I take one step along the sidewalk, then turn abruptly, heading into the park instead. Striding with purpose.
The path is narrow, bordered on both sides by cypress and eucalyptus. As I turn the first bend, I’m sure I hear the grit of heavy footsteps following after me. I stop, standing still in the middle of the path. The sound stops, too. When I resume walking, I hear him following again.
My heart rate doubles.
This is what I wanted. I wanted him to follow. But now that I know he’s right behind me, I can hardly breathe. I want to get up to the sculpture as quickly as possible, because that’s where Cole will be waiting.
I hurry up the long, winding path to the flat top.
Twice I stop and look behind me. The second time, I catch the edge of a dark figure stepping back behind a tree, only a dozen yards behind me.
“Cole?” I call out, as if I think it might be him.
Only silence answers.
I can imagine Shaw standing behind that oak, grinning to himself, his white teeth gleaming in the dark like a Cheshire Cat.
He’s waiting. Watching me. Making sure we’re truly alone.
I continue up the path, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Every creak of a branch, every rustle in the bushes makes me want to scream. It doesn’t matter if Shaw can see the tension in my body, if he can see my footsteps quickening. He knows I’m frightened and that’s just fine—it will only excite him.
He’ll think I came here stupidly, in the heat of the fight, only now realizing that someone might have followed.
The air feels thick and expectant, as if even the wind is holding its breath to see what will happen next.
I step out of the trees, finally arriving on the high, flat vista where Cole built his sculpture.
It towers over me, the glossy black walls of the labyrinth over twenty feet tall.