He glanced back at me and grinned. Was he enjoying this?
What kind of madman enjoyed a street chase?
We passed Broad Street. The traffic grew sparse but not dead. Our hooded guy darted across the street, ignoring the green light. A horn blared as Dane used the back of a car to leap between them. I went through like a regular person by running between the cars.
“Sorry,” I yelled as I made it past the drivers’ doors.
Dane and the suspect were pulling ahead, but I refused to give in. I kept going, my breath ragged and slamming like a drum against my chest. I’d be the next dead body in Charleston if we didn’t stop soon.
The man cut to the left, into an alley near the Old Exchange. Moments later, we burst out onto East Bay. The harbor breeze sent humidity blowing across the street. It hit me in the face as I ran but provided no relief.
A quick, “Oh,” came from me as they pulled further ahead and I slowed to see the pretty house on my right.
Rainbow Row.
I’d seen pictures of the homes online, but they were even prettier in person, even in the growing night. Dane ran right past the iconic painted homes without even a glance. How did he miss the pinks, greens, and blues splashed across the buildings?
The hooded person tilted a little to the left. He scanned the road to the side. Oh no. I knew his next move.
“He’s turning!” I yelled for Dane.
I was helpful like that.
Dane pushed himself harder, catching up to the hooded figure. He grabbed the hood of the sweatshirt and yanked.
I reached them in seconds. Right as Dane flipped the runner over, we got our first view of his face.
What?
I stared at the person who’d been following me around during the tour. The mastermind who sent me a threatening note and broke into my room.
“Do you recognize him?” Dane asked, breathing hard.
The man was barely a man. More like an older teenager. Who was he?
“No.”
It wasn’t anyone on the tours, but he was barely winded even after that run. Ghost?
“Who are you?” Dane asked as he helped the kid stand up.
He jerked away from Dane, but didn’t run. “Who are you, bro?”
“How do you know William Drake?” I asked, getting closer to him. The top of his head barely hit my jawline.
The kid adjusted his sweatshirt. “Who?”
“Wait, princess,” Dane stepped between us. “He’s too short. The video made him taller.”
“Hey,” the kid said, sounding the most offended. “I’m almost five and a half feet, and waiting for my next growth spurt.”
Damn it. Why was he right?
“How’d you run so fast?”
“Cross country.” He pushed back another step. “Why were you chasing me, twin?”
“Huh?” I moved toward Dane. How would we explain this if he called the cops on us?
