2

Her mind froze. Chryssie tore her gaze from the weapon and looked up at the man. Not Zack, but he seemed familiar. Maybe from the bar? She wasn’t sure—it was hard to think. A thousand thoughts zoomed around in her mind. He was bigger and stronger. But she couldn’t die yet.

Gabriella needed her.

“Please.” Was that barely audible whisper hers? She cleared her throat. “Please, don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything.”

“You’ve seen me and that’s all I care about.” The man grabbed her arm. His fingers bit into her flesh. Tears sprang to her eyes as she struggled.

He grabbed her hand, forced it toward the gun, and then pressed her fingers into the trigger and handle. “This is good. You’ll come in quite handy. I guess it’s my lucky day.” He dragged her down the alley like she was a sack of potatoes. Fighting against him did no good.

Her stomach heaved as she looked at the man lying on the dirty bricks. So young. A halo of blood surrounded him. He wouldn’t be needing her help. Or anyone’s.

“OK, let’s get this over with.” He dropped the gun on the ground, then another gun appeared in his hand as if he were a magician.

Bizarrely, she wondered if she should applaud his trick. Until he pointed it at her. Her instincts took over as Chryssie pushed him as hard as she could. Her feet unfroze and she ran.

Pop. Pop.

She zigzagged her way back down the alley the way people did in the movies. Finding her voice, Chryssie yelled for help. Her feet pounded on uneven pavement. Running across the street, she turned into another alley.

His footsteps echoed on the bricks.

Pop.

Her wig had slipped as she ran. Chryssie leaned down to pick it up, but she dropped her purse. Scrambling, she scooped them up and kept running. She sprinted down the alley, widening the distance. All her morning runs were paying off.

Was he still back there? She looked behind her.

The killer ran around the corner. He stopped, his head turning, and then he saw her.

No time to watch him. Keep moving. She ran down the hill to the area known as The Flats. A great place to hide, thanks to all sorts of buildings and alleys. Unfortunately, no houses, only closed businesses. She’d find no help, but at least she could find a place to hide.

Everything went silent except her own ragged breathing. She made another turn and then leaned against the building. Sucking in deep breaths, she peeked around the corner. Still empty. She’d lost him, or he’d given up. Chryssie tried to figure out exactly where she was and how to get home. She’d have to walk. There was no way she was going back to get her car.

He could be there waiting for her.

She wouldn’t spend her rent money for a cab, even if she could find one. Which she probably couldn’t at this time of the night—actually morning. She started out for her apartment, being sure to take different streets. Recalling the attacker’s face, the thought came to her once again. He looked familiar. But why? Had he been in the bar that night? It was possible, but she didn’t think so.

As she limped home, she debated what to do next. Should she call the police and report what she’d seen? She would be able to identify him. She shuddered. His eyes had been so cold, it sent a chill up her spine.

He would probably kill her so she couldn’t testify.

If she went to the police, they’d know her name. And then he might find out. It was the right thing to do. If she ever hoped to transform from a caterpillar to a butterfly, she had to keep making the right choices every time. Not just when it was easy.

But she was so exhausted, she couldn’t think clearly. After a few hours of sleep, she’d decide what to do. It wasn’t as if she could help that poor guy who’d been shot. He was way beyond help.

The black sky turned a hazy gray. She looked at her watch. Almost 5:00 AM. She turned the corner and headed down her street. Tears came to her eyes. When the attacker had aimed the gun at her, she’d been positive she’d never see her tiny apartment again. Or Gabriella. Her feet picked up speed. By the time she unlocked her apartment door, the tears streamed down Chryssie’s cheeks. Once inside, she locked the door, then checked and rechecked it.

Would she ever feel safe again?

She hurried over to the dinette, pulled the cheap aluminum chair across the floor, and propped it under the door handle. That was better. No one would get in—not without her hearing them. She was being paranoid. There was no way that the murderer knew who she was or where she lived. But the chair still made her feel safer.

She crawled into bed.