Page 75 of Make the Play

Then I hear it. The sound of footsteps crossing the street behind me. Deliberate and measured. Not rushed, not slow. Just close enough that I feel them in the pit of my stomach before I even turn my head.

My hand slips into my purse, curling around my keys like muscle memory. I slide one between each finger until they bite into my skin. My thumb brushes the slick top of my lip gloss tube, and something in me flashes cold.

“If you ever need to hit someone, hold something in your fist,” Dad had told me once. “It’ll keep your hand from breaking.”

I’d laughed then, smug in the kind of safety you think is permanent when you’re young. But tonight, that memory slices through me.

I don’t stop walking, but I shift my purse strap higher on my shoulder and lengthen my stride to a determined, don’t-fuck-with-me pace. The rhythm of my heels changes, and somewhere behind me, so does his.

I risk a glance back, and he immediately slows. Keeps his head down. Looks away like he was never watching in the first place.

But I know he was. I can feel it, crawling across the back of my neck like static.

My mouth goes dry, and the block ahead of me feels longer than it should. My apartment is still six minutes away, which feels too far right now. I don’t want to pull out my phone again, and I don’t want to stop moving. I definitely don’t want to run, because my heels would betray me before I made it halfway.

I make a spontaneous decision to take a left. So does he, and my stomach drops.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

There’s a break between buildings up ahead, an alley that leads toward the back of a parking lot. I veer toward it like I meant to all along, pretending I know exactly where I’m going. I keep walking until I’m halfway down it, then whip around and press my back against the brick wall.

My pulse is in my throat, my keys are biting into my palm. I fumble for my phone and lift it to check my signal. One bar, maybe. No service bubble, no blue ticks. I try to load the ride app anyway. It won’t connect.

“No fucking way,” I grit out, chest heaving.

Swallowing hard, I step out from the alley and force my face into something resembling calm. Walk like nothing’s wrong, like I’m not seconds from falling apart. I head toward the nearest intersection, scanning the street for headlights, cab lights,anything.

Then I hear it again. The footsteps. Closer this time, and faster.

I don’t look back.

Instead, I pick up my pace and sharply take the next corner, my heart pounding in my throat. I remember there’s a hotel down here. Nothing fancy, just one of those business class ones with a valet stand and, if I’m lucky, a cab or two still lingering by the curb.

My steps pick up and I can hear my breaths sawing out, unsure if it’s from the exertion or the panic or a mix of both. But as I get closer, I see a cab pulling away from the hotel.

I throw my arm up without thinking, waving wildly like every movie I’ve ever mocked. “Hey! Wait!”

The cab slows and I dart toward it, heels biting into the sidewalk as it comes to a stop. I yank the door open and slide inside, breathless.

“Just drive,” I say, voice shaky. “I’ll give you the address in a sec.”

The driver nods, unfazed. Completely unaware of the nightmare I just walked out of. Only when we go to turn the corner do I finally glance back through the rear windshield.

The sidewalk is empty, but that doesn’t mean there’s no longer a threat.

It just means I can’t see it anymore.

***

Charlie opens the door before I can knock twice, barefoot and bundled in one of Jake’s hoodies that still manages to swallow her very pregnant frame.

“Zoe,” she breathes, concern etched on her face as she ushers me inside. “You okay?”

I don’t answer right away. I just step over the threshold, drop my purse onto the side cabinet, and exhale a long breath.

Jake’s voice drifts in from the kitchen. “Who is it?”

“Zoe,” Charlie calls back as she guides me toward the couch, then adds, “Don’t ask questions.”

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