Page 76 of Every Step She Takes
I try to run, but he’s on me in a second, grabbing my arm and expertly pinning it behind my back. Then he leans in, and his voice loses that midwestern accent and rises an octave to a voice my gut recognizes with a breath-stealing twist.
“Hello, Lucy,” he says. “You aren’t very good at this fugitive nonsense, are you? Grabbed in an alley, and what do you decide is your next move? Sleep in an empty park.” He chuckles. “Not exactly a criminal mastermind. Lucky for me.”
“Who are you?” I say, my voice rising, shrill and shaky. “What do you want?”
He laughs at the movie-cliché dialogue and relaxes his grip just a little, reassured that I really am an idiot. It’s the opening I want, and I yank from his grip, spinning around to slam him with my backpack as I knee him between the legs. He staggers, and I run.
If you’d asked me whether I ran as fast as I could earlier today, I’d have said obviously I did. I did not. My attacker had been thwarted by the delivery driver, giving me the time I needed to get to a public place.
I’m still in a public place… only this one is completely empty, and there’s nothing to slow down my attacker. I run, skidding and sliding at first, the backpack thumping against my side. Then I manage to sling it over my shoulder as I find my footing.
The man comes after me. He is not on the ground, writhing in agony after that knee between the legs. He’s frothing-at-the-mouth furious, screaming epithets, his average-guy mask shredded.
I start down the footpath and then veer with a mental reminder that, when running for one’s life, one does not need to stick to the paths. I run, blinking against the darkness until I spot the Delacorte Theater ahead. I race toward it and swing toward the first building I see.
As soon as I slow, I hear his pounding footfalls, and I plaster myself to the wall and squeeze my eyes shut to listen.
Run past me. Just run past me.
There’s a chance he will. There’s also a chance that he’ll look over his shoulder as he passes, and he’ll spot me. I will be ready for that. I’ll run if I have time. I’ll fight if I do not.
I keep my eyes shut, tracking his progress. When I pick up a second set of footfalls, my eyes fly open.
Is that the actual park police? There’s no way I could be that lucky. I’m hearing an echo. I must be.
Unless my attacker isn’t alone.
Dear God, what if he has a partner?
I brace myself. He’s drawing closer. He’s still running full out, not slowing as he nears the building. He’s going to run past. Please, let him run past.
A yelp rings out. A high-pitched squeal of surprise. Then “What the–?”
The sound of a fist striking. A thump, too hard to be someone falling. Someone being thrown to the hard earth.
Another smack. An animal yowl of pain.
Run!
What’s going on? What just happened?
Does it matter? Run.
I want to look. I so badly want to peek out and see what’s going on, but the audio will have to be enough. Someone chased my pursuer. Either the park police or a stranger who saw him coming after me. Now there’s a fight, and I have a chance to escape.
I creep along the theater. It seems to take forever, but finally, I see the Great Lawn ahead. I race toward it as the sounds of the fight fade behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When I exit Central Park, I check the time. Three a.m. My stomach twists. This might be the city that doesn’t sleep, but it does hit a point on weeknights where the only people out are… not people I want to meet. I feel as exposed as a lone antelope at a watering hole.
I duck into an all-night diner, buy pie and coffee, and sit in a corner booth. If the server or the cook recognizes me and calls the police, I’m done. I won’t flee. I won’t fight. I’m casting my die here. Fate will have her way, and I’ll think,At least it’s not as bad as what could have happened tonight.
Whatdidhappen tonight? I’m still unpacking that. I made a mistake this afternoon when I told myself that the alley attack was a crime of opportunity. Ten years ago, I’d have berated myself for that as much as I did for the knife attack. How could I be so stupid?
I’ll be gentler with myself tonight. Kinder and more understanding. I did not want to seriously entertain the possibility that this afternoon’s attack was targeted because the online vitriol has ignited old memories. Memories of my self-worth being ground into dust. Memories of being stomped into ignominy even as my picture graced a thousand newspapers. Who did I think I was? Just some girl, some nanny, some homely nobody. Attacked in an alley by a crazed fan? Don’t be silly. That doesn’t happen. Do I really crave attention that badly? Do I really think anyone cares enough to do that?
Paranoid. How often have I chastised myself with that word?I’m being silly, being paranoid.It felt like common sense, but the root of it was that insidious whisper from the past, telling me I was nothing, wasn’t even pretty enough to snare Colt Gordon for a night –God, did you see her? How drunk and horny was he?
