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With the limited numbness inside me, I almost start to cry thinking about him. I haven’t cried in a very long time. The sensation feels strange and kind of alarming.
I manage to suck back the tears as I head to the right toward the street. Then I stop dead at the sight of what’s at the end of the alley.
Parked near the dumpsters is an oversized SUV with tinted windows.
“It could be just a normal SUV,” I whisper to myself as I jog toward the street. “I’m just being paranoid.” I start to run. “Just being paranoid …” I take off in a sprint. “Just being—”
As the headlights flip on and beam brightly against my back, I don’t give myself time to hesitate. I run as if my life depends on it.
Tires screech against the pavement behind me as the car drives forward. I reach for my gun as I near the street. But right as I’m about to exit the alley, another vehicle pulls up and blocks my route. It’s not an SUV; it’s a plain, black car with no tinting, just like the one I saw in front of my house the other night.
Light trails into the windows from the lampposts lining the street and nearby buildings. I can tell there’s only one person inside, but their face is just a shadow beneath the hoodie pulled over their head.
Is that the guy from out front?
They start to lean over for the passenger side door, which is closest to me, and that’s when I notice the gun in their hand.
I step back from the door, hurry to the side, and then jump onto the hood of the car and hop onto the street. I take off toward the corner, telling myself to look forward. Don’t look back. But when I hear a loud crash and voices close behind me, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder.
The SUV has side swept the car and dented in the door.
I don’t stop, only speed up, especially when a group of large men hop out of the SUV, all dressed in dark clothing and packing. When I make out a few of their faces, my heart slams into my chest.
Frankie Catherlson’s men.
What the hell? Why are they here?
I don’t get it. I don’t understand. I’m not stupid enough to turn around and ask them, though. Whatever reason they’re here can’t be good.
I run like I’ve never run before until I’m several blocks away from the hotel. Then I flag down the first cab I see.
“Where to?” the driver asks, looking over his shoulder at me with a smile, but his grin immediately drops as he catches sight of my expression. “Miss, are you okay?”
“Yeah … I’m fine,” I tell him, wiping the sweat from my face. Then I sputter out my apartment address while wondering if I should go somewhere else. Regardless, I need to go back and at least get my money and a couple of other important items, like my identification, before I take off.
God, how far am I going to make it now that they’re here?
With no other choice, I let the cab driver take me to my apartment.
I glance through the back window only when I know I’m going to be able to get away. What I see makes me wish I never looked.
Standing in the shadows, watching Frankie’s men chase after me, is someone I never thought I’d see again.
At first, I think he’s a ghost. That’s the only way I should be able to see him.
My ex-best friend. The man who saved me. The man who, for the last eighteen months, I thought was dead.
Layton Everett.
About the Author
Jessica Sorensen is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who lives in the snowy mountains of Wyoming. When she’s not writing, she spends her time reading and hanging out with her family.
