She walked quickly, almost running now, darkness bearing down on her in the streets populated with drunks and addicts. Wearing boots had been a terrible mistake, her feet ached as her toes tried to clutch the shoes from the inside, the entire shoe structured for show, not utility.
She rounded the corner, back into an area with functioning streetlights. She could slow down now, maybe.
She reduced her speed to a rapid walk, willing herself not to look back. Deep gulps of air filled her lungs, making her feel more frantic. She limped slightly, a blister forming on her left baby toe.
She looked up and saw him, coming toward her. He hadn’t been behind her after all.
Still, he wouldn’t do anything here, in public, no matter how destitute the witnesses. He wouldn’t risk it. But why had she even tried to flee? It was impossible to out-run him forever.
The phone, her messages to his ex streaming across the screen, was in his hand.
The gun wasn’t visible, but she knew it was there, waiting.