1
Heavy fog rolled in, making the abandoned street eerier than it already was. The weather had changed right around the time Nadia began searching for the address she’d hastily typed into her phone's notes. Silence in this particular area seemed wrong somehow.
Why the hell was an ordinarily bustling city dead before eight p.m.?
It didn’t make sense.
A cool wind kicked up, rattling trash cans clustered on the sidewalk’s edge. The rancid odor hit her nose and had the audacity to linger.
From behind, a soft swish of rubber soles hitting pavement drifted to her, and Nadia shuddered. The chill in her bones had nothing to do with the dampness and everything to do with the echoing footfalls. Her instincts were screaming at her to do something.
Anything.
“This is every horror film come to life,” she mumbled.
She slipped a hand inside her bag and fumbled for one of three dumbass deterrents. As her shaking fingers closed around the can of pepper spray, she sighed. Not the taser—where the hell was the taser?—but it would have to be good enough.
A dull gray mist deepened the shadows along the sidewalk, forcing her to squint at building numbers as she hurried past. Whoever had trailed her for the last three blocks had her nerves frayed. She considered ducking into an alley, but unfamiliar territory and blind trust in a map app didn’t exactly scream survival savvy.
Nadia picked up the pace.
And with sickening dread, it registered that the footsteps had sped up, matching hers.
If she didn’t find the damn coffee shop soon, she was going to faint from the building anxiety. At this point, any lit storefront would do. Preferably one packed with witnesses.
Should she turn and confront whoever was trailing her?
Christ, no!
She wasn’t that brave. Her framed portrait hung in a position of honor in the Chicken Shit Hall of Fame.
Exhaling a shaky breath, she made her decision.
Screw it.
It was time to run or risk becoming a cautionary tale in a Dateline episode. If she didn’t trip over air—her standard party trick—she probably stood a 1:100 chance of getting away.
The boarded-up, puke-green exterior of the next building sent her heart plummeting straight to her big toe. Not a single pane of intact glass. Nothing reflective to sneak a peek and check her stalker’s distance.
There was no doubt about it. She was hopelessly lost.
With zero options left, she bolted. Arms and legs pumped in time to her hammering heart. Her pulse thundered in her ears and made her deaf to all else around her, so she risked a quick glance over her shoulder.
Empty sidewalk.
Had they turned back or circled around to intercept her?
Though she hated to, she ran faster.
A massive figure appeared out of the shadows.
One second, her sensible shoes were pounding the pavement, and the next, she’d plowed into a towering brick wall, promptly landing on her back.
The wind rushed out of her lungs in a squeaky, demeaning oof. Her arms flailed outward, and her little metal canister clanked as it rolled away with her last hope of defending herself.
Right along with whatever dignity she possessed.
She was going to die. Right here on the disgusting sidewalk, hair coated with who-knew-what and her life’s potential unfulfilled.
