the heady rush at the end of each run was her reward.
The trail narrowed again, and the woods became thicker. Dana heard the faint crunch of gravel. Her senses perked up, and she glanced over her shoulder.
Her blood chilled.
A man jogged behind her, maybe twenty yards back, and she’d seen him before. Dana focused on the path ahead, listening to the rhythm of his footsteps. Her pulse started to thrum. Where had she seen him? Her brain kicked into gear, retracing her steps over the past twenty-four hours. She’d been to work, the grocery store, home. She tried to recall the faces in the checkout line, or anyone she’d passed in the lobby of her apartment building. She pictured the man without looking back: tall, buzz cut, heavy eyebrows. Where had she seen him before?
You’re being paranoid.
You’re being paranoid.
You’re being paranoid.
The words echoed through her mind as she pounded down the trail. She peered ahead, searching for Blue on the path, but she couldn’t see him anymore, couldn’t see anyone. This section was practically deserted.
The footfalls came faster, and panic spurted through her. Why had he changed his pace?
Dana changed hers, too, trying to catch up to Blue—or anyone, at this point. The slap of shoes behind her sounded closer now.
Sweat streamed down her back. She visualized where she was on the trail. About a quarter mile ahead was a nature center. To her right, through a patch of trees and bushes, was a parking lot. Would someone be there now? It wasn’t even six thirty.
Dana’s breath grew ragged. Her skin prickled, and her blood turned icy. With every footfall she knew that the years and the miles and the lies had finally caught up to her. There would be no more running.
And there would be no mercy.
With a trembling hand, she unzipped her pouch and took out her phone. She thumbed in the passcode. Should she really do this? Maybe she was overreacting.
But no. She wasn’t.
She darted another glance over her shoulder.
Eye contact. And Dana knew.
She bolted into the woods, plowing through bushes and darting around trees. Behind her, she heard the distant but unmistakable swish-swish of her pursuer moving through the brush. Dana’s heart thundered as she pressed the contact number. Every swish-swish ratcheted up her terror. Finally, the call connected.
“Tabby, it’s me. It’s happening!” Just saying the words made her stomach clench. “It’s happening!”
Dana hurled the phone into the bushes and cast a frantic glance behind her. She couldn’t see him anymore, but she knew he was back there, felt it in her core. Every nerve ending burned with the certainty of being chased.
Where was the damn parking lot? Through the trees, she glimpsed a patch of asphalt and the red hood of a car. She ran faster, swiping at the branches. Thorns snagged her clothes and sliced her arms, but she clawed through the bushes as fast as she could, sprinting for the red.
A tall figure stepped into her path. Dana gave a squeak and stopped short.
The man moved closer. His eyes bored into hers, and she knew she’d been right. Not paranoid at all, but right.
He took another step forward, and Dana’s gaze landed on the knife in his hand. A silent weapon. Of course.
Terror pierced her heart as he stepped nearer. Tears stung her eyes.
“Please,” she rasped. “I’ll do anything.”
Another step, and she could smell the sweat on his skin now. He was that close. Her heart jackhammered and she knew this was it. Fight-or-flight time.
“Please.”
She let the tears leak out. Let him think he’d won.
“Please . . .”
The man smiled slightly.
Dana turned and ran.
CHAPTER
TWO
BAILEY RHOADS WATCHED the parking lot through the veil of rain. It poured off the overhang, splashing the sidewalk in front of her and soaking the cuffs of her jeans. She pressed her phone to her ear as a police car pulled into the lot and slid into the handicapped space beside the door.
“Metro desk.”
“Hey, it’s me,” Bailey said as the officer got out. Skip Shepherd. That figured. He pretended not to see her as he ducked through the sheet of water and jerked open the door to the convenience store, letting out a waft of cold air.
“Tell me something good, Rhoads.”
“Sorry, can’t do it.”
“Crap.”
“This is a bust,” she said. “A couple teens boosted some beer from the stock room, ran out the back. Clerk chased them and a patrol car pulled up.”
Her editor muttered something either to himself or someone else in the newsroom.
“I’ll write up a brief, but