Chapter 12
Jordan
So far from the city, there’s hardly any light that’s not natural. The dark eats me alive. No moonlight, no stars, nothing but the far-off glow of streetlamps painting jagged shadows over perfect grass.
Though I’m barefoot and unable to see where I’m walking, I refuse to let that slow me down.
Five days in that house, under his eyes. In my excitement and haste to hatch my escape plan, I forgot to close the bathroom door. I’ve bought myself a handful of minutes, maybe only seconds, before he notices the empty room. Before he starts the hunt.
The black iron fence, spiked and sharp, shines like the mouth of some patient predator. I grab the spokes. Haul myself up. Muscle memory flares from a life I’d buried. With a twist and a jump, I’m over.
The landing rattles my bones and rips open the bandage on my palms. Pain fans out, clean and white-hot. But pain is just fuel.
That’s what I’ve sold a thousand times in the camera’s eye.
Tonight, I spin the words into truth.
I stay low, move fast, and hug the darkness, keeping to the edges, my every sense tuned to the possibility of headlights or footsteps.
Oak Park is empty at this hour, the rich houses asleep, their secrets tucked up behind dark glass.
No one’s waiting at a window to spot the woman sprinting through their perfect suburb.
Cool late summer air cuts through the soft pants and thin shirt Kirill gave me.
Where do I go?
Not Ashley’s.
He’s got people stalking her. Showing up would just make things worse. I can’t go back to my own place either. That’s the first place he’ll check, and I don’t even have my keys or my phone.
Just me. Bare feet, raw nerves, eyes scanning streetlight after streetlight as I try to map a strange neighborhood with nothing but old memories.
When the rumble of an engine purrs behind me, icy panic floods through my veins.
I drop down, wedging myself behind a hedge, inhaling the scent of soil and leaves. Blood wells up in a line along my forearm, but I barely feel the sting.
Headlights sweep over the road, past my hiding spot. An SUV with a woman driver.
Not him.
Not yet. But he’ll come.
I can’t stay on the street. I need to vanish.
Up ahead, I spy black trees, deeper dark, and a hollow in the grid of houses.
Scoville Park.
I saw the sign coming in, days ago, and filed the location away for future use. The park’s invisible now except for the faint outline of park benches, an amphitheater, and a jungle gym against the sky.
I cross the street at a dead sprint. My bare feet slap against the asphalt, the echo too loud.
Dangerous.
Wet and cold, but also soft and quiet.
I lose traction and slip but don’t stop.
You can’t slow down when a shark is on your tail. And you can’t leave tracks for him to follow.
I waver between joy and fear, my mind swirling with what ifs. He’ll be coming any moment, stalking the night, waiting to ensnare me in his jaws.
But I’m free. I’m alive. And I know how to disappear.
I’m running blind save for the hints of light filtering through the trees.
My breath becomes broken, each inhalation a battle.
Breathe in abundance. Breathe out fear.
I pick the biggest oak I can find near the center of the park, its trunk as wide as a compact car. The bark, worn smooth by the years, slides under my palms as I feel my way around in the dark. I scan what little I can see.
A stretch of grass, shivering leaves, the brittle shush of tall ferns bending to the wind. In the distance, I can hear the faint hum of traffic from another, safer world. But not a single person comes into view.
And no one will until morning.
I’m all alone.
By now, Kirill’s definitely noticed my absence. He’s hunting me.
The memory of the alley claws its way up my spine. The quick, careless violence. Bodies left sprawled on concrete like they never mattered. The bump of his car hitting them on the way out.
But then my traitorous brain flickers to the heat of his mouth on mine. The grip of his hands. The way I unraveled in his arms and melted against the wall.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Block the image out.
That wasn’t real.
Not the desire or the connection. Fear and adrenaline tripped some ancient wire and twisted my situation into a more tolerable reality. Nothing more.
Fight or flight. Those are the natural reactions to shocking events. Sometimes, I freeze.
With Kirill, I reacted differently.
That’s all.
No sense lingering on a trauma response.
Headlights sweep along the edge of the park.
Slow. Too slow.
Searching.
My breath stops dead in my throat as a quiet, expensive car glides past. A vehicle built for the kind of man who doesn’t need to announce himself.
Kirill.
He passes the entrance.
Brakes. Reverses.
I leave the tree behind and dart deeper into darkness, my lungs seizing in my chest. I scramble low to the ground on my hands, not caring how crazy I might appear. Every misstep snaps a twig or grinds a sharp stone into my palms or feet.
None of that matters.
I have to hide.
In the hush of the night, a car door opens and closes almost silently.
I drop flat and crawl for cover, zeroing in on a rhododendron bush near the fence line, its thick leaves drooping to the ground to create a dim little cave.
I shove in headfirst, stirring up a mess of wet, rotting leaves and earth.
I taste dirt in my mouth, the sharp tang of detritus invading my nose.
I fold myself as small as I can, knees to my chest, fists pressed tight to my mouth so my breathing doesn’t give me away.
Footsteps. So muted, I’d miss them if I weren’t listening.
Not a guard or a late-night jogger. Every step is measured and patient. The sound of someone who knows exactly what he’s after and how to find it.
Kirill closes in. Penning me in a cage I can’t see.
The air thickens, a current of static prickling along my skin. In my head, the soundtrack from that old shark movie starts.
Dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun…
The harbinger of death and inevitability, relentless as the tide.
The footsteps stop.
The weight of Kirill’s gaze drifts around me.
I clamp my eyes shut, plunging myself into absolute darkness.
There’s nothing left to see. The hunt is already in motion. I have a fifty-fifty shot of him finding me.
I’ve lived this moment before.
Not in this park or with this man, but this same mind-numbing panic. And the accompanying impossible stillness of praying for invisibility. All accomplished by holding my breath and erasing the edges of myself. Fading into the scenery around me.
Years of spiritual work, the endless meditation and energy rituals, every lesson I ever gave… I always knew there was more beneath it than incense and affirmations. Beneath the crystals and journals was this.
The art of vanishing into myself.
Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t even let your thoughts ripple the air.
You don’t exist. You’re just part of the universe.
Stillness.
One heartbeat. Another. Time distorts.
Then, impossibly, his slow, methodical footsteps move on.
The urge to run pulses in my veins, but just the idea of stepping into open air makes my skin crawl. Out there, I’m exposed. Here, shrouded by earth and leaves, I’m camouflaged. He’s already combed this patch of park. Logic suggests he won’t search here again.
So I stay, invisible but listening.
Always listening.
Cold seeps up from the ground, soaking through the battered, borrowed clothes and burrowing into my bones. Every shiver reminds me that I’ve endured worse.
Kholodno.
This isn’t nearly as bad as that.
Or even what I’ve gone through myself.
I slept beneath bridges when I was just a teenager. Fled my mother’s world of gleaming silver and garden parties and daughters that never argued, bled, or failed to fit the mold.
The first time, I’d been fourteen and desperate but unprepared. Hunger brought me home after only two days. The second—a little braver, a little older at fifteen—lasted the better part of a week. Over and over, I tested my limits.
By sixteen, I knew what to do.
And never went back. I’d slept on cardboard, knew which shelters offered safe beds and which asked too many questions.
Learned to steal bandages and painkillers from pharmacy shelves.
Discovered that stale bagels from the bakery dumpsters kept you alive just as well as filet mignon, even if they proved harder to chew.
This? A pile of leaves beneath a rhododendron, on a patch of dry, unfrozen earth? Practically luxury. There’s no rain. The air is cool, yes, but not biting. Fall won’t start for a few more days.
I know how to do this. How to vanish behind the world’s indifference. How to melt into the margins. How to survive.
With cupped hands, I rake more leaves beneath me, building a nest. While not perfect, this makeshift bedding insulates me just enough. The thick, loamy scent of decay grounds me. I fold my arms, wedge my hands beneath my armpits, and tuck my knees to my chest.
Tomorrow, I’ll decide what comes next. How to reach home. How to warn Ashley. How to keep breathing.
For tonight, this will suffice. I am unclaimed and free. I am here and fighting.
Sometimes, that’s all survival asks of you.