The Storm We Breathe

Prologue

Three Days Prior

Diane

Running in high heels is hard.

Running in stilettos? Even harder.

Add an evening gown, and you have yourself a real situation.

But I have no choice, because there’s a madman chasing me through this parking garage.

Somewhere behind me, the stomp of boots on concrete echoes like a countdown. The distant city noise hums along with people living their lives. But down here, a damp danger clings to me. Plus, there’s this throbbing pain in my feet, a constant reminder of my ill-fitting shoes. Each step is fire.

It’s past eleven p.m., and the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead is doing nothing but add to my already frazzled nerves.

As I struggle to run, my body shakes uncontrollably, and I can’t seem to gain any speed.

Granted, I used to run marathons for fun, but now, as a fifty-four-year-old woman, I’m missing the fast pace of my youth.

Adrenaline courses through me while I hold my clutch like a security blanket.

The fiery sensation in my legs intensifies with each step as I focus on not twisting my ankle.

SNAP!

I tumble forward, face-planting onto the hard ground. Damnit! The heel of my shoe broke.

Why didn’t I go with the cute ballet flats I originally planned on wearing? Then again, how was I supposed to know I’d be chased tonight? A scenario that you only have nightmares about.

But what is happening right now is all too real.

Sweat beads roll down my back, chafing against the scratchy material of my dress. With heavy, labored breaths, I tip my chin over my shoulder. I don’t see him, so I crawl forward, propping myself up against a concrete pillar, whipping off my strappy heels and trying to catch my breath.

“Diane.” My name on his tongue, cunning yet playful, pierces through the calm.

I freeze.

He’s close, but I don’t know where.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Is this a game to him?

Crawling across the dirty ground, I crouch between two SUVs, my back pressed to the metal, heart slamming like it wants to be released. A sharp pain pierces my arch as I dig my feet into the ground, trying to adjust. My hand flies to my mouth, desperate to contain the scream bubbling up.

Something’s sliced the bottom of my foot.

Crimson red blood cascades down, landing on the piece of glass responsible. It’s okay for now. But my chances of outrunning this lunatic now dropped a few percentage points.

Great.

Resting my head against the SUV’s black car door, I peek at the rear-view mirror. Like a lion stalking its prey, he approaches. Menacing, dressed in all black, with a hoodie covering his face.

A ski mask included to make him even scarier.

I’m out of time.

And trapped.

I bite down on the urge to holler for help and attempt to steady my rigid breathing. Water dripping from a pipe nearby only heightens my anxiety.

“I can smell you, Diane.” God, he’s creepy.

Rose!

Immediately, my lovely, strong, and capable daughter’s face flashes in my mind. I have no idea how this is going to end. But my gut is telling me … not well.

She has to know.

I dropped and shattered my phone while running, attempting to call 911, so I have only one option.

Unclasping my clutch, I peer inside, searching for my small spiral notebook and pen.

Something I always carry with me since mathematical equations swirl around in my brain 24/7.

And thanks to the gift of aging, I’m more prone to forgetting when one comes to mind.

But now, I need this handy-dandy notebook for a very different reason.

I click the pen, flip open to the first page, and write.

To whomever finds this, please give it to the police.

Rose,

Tell

“There is nowhere for you to hide. I can hear your breathing.” He’s not panting or out of breath from the chase. Just … close. So close.

Frantically, my fingers grip the pen as I finish what may be my last thoughts and words to my baby girl. My world plummets as a sudden, unwelcome realization settles in.

I’ll never see her find a good man.

Or watch her fall in love.

Get married.

Start a family.

A single tear tracks down my cheek while I write the last word. It’s not what I wanted to say, but I pray it’s enough.

With slow, determined movements, I rip the small white-lined paper from the metal spirals and fold it in half.

Shifting, I slip the paper in the crack of the SUV’s two doors.

It’s sticking out, visible against the shiny black paint job.

Which hopefully will be enough for the driver of this vehicle to see it.

If nothing else, it will fall out when they open their door.

I toss my clutch in front of the tire. It’s all inside. ID, wallet, my late husband’s wedding ring that I always carry with me. When the driver leaves, it will still be here, intact, ready to be found. At least the authorities can identify me.

And so will Rose.

My hand falls to the pavement. Wiggling my toes, I realize my foot is numb. Running is no longer an option. If this is the end, I’m going down swinging. Standing will expose me, but I’d rather he discovered me upright than lying on the floor.

I hold my breath, get my bearings, and grip the handle of the car door, pulling myself up.

This could be my last breath.

“There she is.”

I scream.

Everything goes black.