Page 54 of The Woman in the Hollow
My body decided before my brain did.
I just turned away and ran. Harder than I ever had, ignoring the branches that clawed at my arms and the stitch that immediately started in my side.
The sun hadn’t fully broken yet, only streaks of pale gold threading through the fog that still hugged the cold ground.
My shoes—cheap canvas sneakers not made for running—slapped the dry earth, each step kicking up leaves and adrenaline.
A twig snapped somewhere behind me.
My heart froze then thundered, the sound of it in my ears nearly drowning out everything else.
Another crunch, this time closer.
He was gaining on me already, tearing through the underbrush, steady, relentless. Like he wasn’t even winded. When I could barely suck in a breath.
“Get back here,” the man snarled.
Not a chance.
I ducked beneath a low branch and almost lost my footing on a patch of leaves slick with morning dew.
The world tilted—my shoulder slammed into a tree trunk, pain flashing hot up my arm.
I shoved away and kept going, tasting copper from biting the inside of my cheek.
Something—root, rock, fate—caught my foot. I pitched forward, the breath punched out of my lungs as I hit the ground.
For a moment, everything was sound. The pounding of my pulse, the ragged rasp of my breath, the rustle of leaves disturbed by footsteps closing in.
I scrambled, clawing at dirt and leaves and brambles. My nails filled with soil. The barely healed scratches on my palms opened back up.
My legs didn’t want to listen to my mind—my muscles trembled, rubbery from panic and exhaustion.
A shadow fell across me.
I twisted, kicked out. My heel connected with something solid, drawing a grunt from my pursuer.
Damn it—”
I flipped over, not wanting to see him, not wanting the look in his eye to freeze me in place.
I crawled forward, half-blind, grabbing for a low branch and hauling myself back up onto my feet.
My chest heaved; my throat burned.
Somewhere ahead, the turned field of the pumpkin field could be seen through the trees.
Even in my panic, I’d headed toward a place that felt like safety to me.
The garden center.
Civilization.
I staggered forward.
Behind me, the footsteps came again, slower now, measured.
Not quite running—stalking.
