I had no intention of ever seeing Officer Alex Brett again.

As soon as I closed the door to my apartment, I locked it. I knew damn well he’d only come here to be nosy, and there had been no reason why he couldn’t have just given Mrs. Coskins that reference number she wanted for insurance purposes over the phone.

I now noticed he hadn’t offered me the reference number, either. Probably because he knew with one glance around my place that I didn’t have anything worth insuring. It’d been embarrassing to even have him here, bearing witness to what little I owned, and the state of disrepair my “home” was in.

But, it was hard to accumulate belongings when I’d moved three times in less than a year. It was even harder to pay for a half decent living space when I had no money, and couldn’t just go get a typical menial job to make it. Something as simple as having a bank account, or getting a job—those things required paperwork. Which required identification. And while I did have a driver’s license, it was expired and displayed a different name than the one I went by. Renewing it would have had the same result as almost anything else nowadays.

A paper trail.

I’d done everything in my power to disappear from the radar of those people that were searching for me. I didn’t exist, and I hadn’t for some time as far as technology was concerned. I was a ghost, essentially, and yet they continued to find me. By the skin of my teeth, I’d evaded them twice already, but each time resulted in moving to a different state, leaving whatever life I’d built behind me.

The first time, I admit it. I made a mistake by continuing to use my real name. No one went by that last name and didn’t catch the eye of someone, whether it be law enforcement or the common criminal.

The second time, I knew better. Different name, everything done by cash transaction—no exceptions. They’d still found me, in Salt Lake City, but the silver lining was that I’d seen them first.

Him, I should say. I only saw one man, but I recognized him immediately, and the fear that froze my insides had almost paralyzed me.

Almost.

I’d packed up and been gone from that city in a matter of hours, taking only my art supplies and a backpack of clothes with me on the bus. Everything else had been left behind, much to the dismay of my landlord at the time, I’m sure.

I wasn’t a criminal. Not then, and not now. The men who were after me were the criminals. Yet, they had me on the run. Afraid of them, afraid of my surroundings.

Hell, afraid of myself.

And now I was afraid of Officer Alexander Brett. That was what his card said his full name was. And I should’ve known, seeing as I’d glanced at it more than a handful of times since he left. His name didn’t sound like a police officer’s name to me. It sounded like he should be someone famous. Maybe that was because, to me, he looked like someone who should be, too. A rugged, chiseled sexiness…

Good God, whatever happened to the overweight cops with a love of doughnuts and coffee? I scrunched my nose up as soon as the thought hit me. I’d always hated stereotypes, the unfairness of them resonating deeply within me. But, maybe that was because I always felt like that girl in the horror movies, being chased by the ax murderer. I could run anywhere, but no matter which direction or what precautions I took, my assailant would always find me. Because the movie could only last so long, and sooner or later, that girl was going to run up the stairs to hide, not thinking clearly in her panic and haste, when she should’ve disappeared out the back door to safety.

I didn’t know where safety was, but as I glanced forlornly around my sparse apartment, feeling somehow emptier than ever since Officer Brett’s departure, I realized I couldn’t kid myself into thinking this was it.

“What the hell am I going to do?” I whispered in the silence, but not only was there nothing worth of value in that cramped space, there was no one worth of value in my life, either. So, my question fell on deaf ears, and I shook my head at the sadness of it all.

* * *

I made coffee at home the next morning, tucked away behind the locked doors of my unit and the back entrance. A fight had broken out throughout the night in the apartment above mine, as it so usually did when the weekend rolled around, and the angry shouting and smashing of glass and banging of walls had me convinced that the police would show up at any second.

I don’t know why that scared me in the wee hours of the morning, but it rattled me more than the previous weekend rumbles had. I thought I’d grown used to it by now, living in a building with a bunch of strangers around me, their lives happening loudly through the uninsulated walls and ceiling. Hearing the muffled sounds of their anger, and amusement, and happiness as they went about their daily lives. Even the raucous drunkenness and partying was something I’d thought I’d learned to ignore.

Last night, my subconscious had other plans.

Obviously, my run-in with the purse thief and the subsequent police officer had shaken me.

But, now that the sun had come out, brightening the shadows in the corners of the room and stealing away the doubts and images my mind conjured, I felt better. Coffee in hand, I retreated back to my futon, tugging the lone blanket up over my legs again.

I needed a plan. With only a lousy hundred dollars in my possession, I needed to be wise in how I used it. And I needed to get another art gig pronto. That meant the only option I had was to spend part of the money on a new disposable phone, and get my butt around town to change the phone number I’d listed on those damn business cards I’d posted to promote myself. New business cards were out of the question considering the budget I was now on. I’d have to scratch the phone number out on my existing cards and hope it doesn’t look too unprofessional.

There was nothing else I could do but wait, and hope someone saw the card and called. In the meantime, I could finish up the painting I’d been working on, currently half-finished and tucked away behind the pile of clothing in my closet. I’d put it there the other day when the inspiration had struck me to do the sketch of my mother.

My mother.

Why in God’s name had I told Officer Brett it was her in the portrait? I really needed to learn to lie better.

The sketch was almost done, but it would have to wait now. Finishing up the painting in the closet and offering it up to the owner of the Deja Café down the street for resale might bring in enough money to cover half the month’s rent, if he took enough pity on me.

That was the café I’d sometimes sit in, rarely buying anything because purchasing a cup of coffee was frivolous in my circumstances. But Mario, the owner, had seen me in there and caught a glimpse of the landscape scene I’d been sketching idly. He’d offered me a hundred dollars on the spot in exchange for my permission to resell it. It wasn’t quite a friendship that had blossomed between us, but he’d purchased two more sketches from me in the last few months and we genuinely smiled when we saw each other, so that had to pass for at least an acquaintanceship.

It was dangerous, becoming a regular at a social spot in the city. At any given time, someone could trudge in, ask about me, or show a photo. And someone could blow my cover wide open.

But, being stranded in Boulder City with no means to purchase a ticket out of here, if needed, was just as dangerous. And I would not be a sitting duck, waiting for Creighton Banks and his cronies to close in on me.

My mother had done just that, and I knew how it ended. If I was going to be found, I damn well wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

* * *

It was ridiculous how many options there were for prepaid cellphones in Wal-Mart. All I gave a damn about was that it was cheap, but the different brands and add-ons were daunting, especially to someone who had been out of the technology loop for the past year. Not that I’d really been in the loop before that, but technology moved so fast, always changing, never the same. I hadn’t kept up, and it had left me in the dust.

I stood there, a phone in either hand, trying to decide which was the better bang for my buck, wondering what in the world I’d ever do if I had to choose a real cellphone with a real plan. The man at the other end of the aisle was debating his purchase as well. I ignored him for the most part, taking in only the fact that his boots were muddy, leaving dirty tracks in the spot he stood in.

Sighing, I decided that the only difference between the two phones in my hand was the dollar’s difference in price, so I shoved the more expensive package back onto the shelf. A dollar was a dollar.

The prepaid cards to accompany it were on the back wall, and I rounded the end of the aisle in search of the one that could be used with this phone. Imagine, another ten gazillion choices.

Fed up with the tedious task, I pulled the cheapest one—a ten-dollar prepaid card—from the display rack and turned abruptly to head back toward the checkout.

The man with the muddy boots was there, about fifteen feet away, and I’d just caught his gaze on me before he wheeled back to face the wall, ogling the phone chargers.

Or pretending to.

A shiver raced up my spine, chilling me despite the comfortable temperature of the store. The man didn’t look familiar, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them.

Acting as normal as I could, I put the prepaid card back and grabbed a twenty-dollar card, pretending to change my mind. It gave me the chance I needed to turn the other way and make my way toward the cash registers without seeming too spooked. For good measure, I risked a glance over my shoulder.

His gaze was on me now, his eyes intense.

I turned away, resisting the urge to toss the phone and prepaid card on the nearest shelf and run for the door. But, in here, with at least a couple hundred other people milling about—I told myself it was the safest place I could be.

I stood in line silently, trying to be as nonchalant as I could while stealing glances in the direction I’d come. He was still there, just by the sliding doors. Whether he was actually talking on the phone, calling to confirm to someone else that he’d found me, or just holding it to give the illusion he was waiting for someone, I didn’t know.

I also didn’t know how I was going to get out of here.

My mind whirled with scenarios, but my options were slim. Especially since I didn’t want to involve anyone else. No innocent bystanders. No staff members. No police.

The woman ran my items through the scanner and I pulled out two of the twenty-dollar bills that had been crumpled in my pocket. With it, a creased business card fell to the ground.

Officer Alexander Brett.

No. I couldn’t.

I plucked the card from the floor, stuffing it back in my pocket as the woman gave me my change.

“Thanks,” I said without smiling, and grabbed the bag she’d placed my items in.

What am I going to do? My heart was pounding hard, and I could feel my eyes widening with uncertainty.

I needed more time. To think, to plan. But there wasn’t time when the man with cold eyes was watching me like a hunter with his finger on the trigger. Watching. Waiting.

“You done?”

I turned sharply at the voice, but the teenage boy who’d been behind me in line was staring at me confusedly as I stood between him and the debit machine.

Oh, I’m done, all right. “Sorry. Yeah.” I stepped away from the checkout, my head swimming at a dizzying rate.

A furtive glance proved the man at the front doors, unshaven and exuding menace, was still there, and he’d taken a few steps closer, urged on by my likeness to a deer in the headlights.

I scanned the building, up one side and down the other, and made a split-second decision. I was closer to the public restrooms than he was. My first few steps were hesitant, until I saw him match each of them, closing the gap between us.

I dove for the women’s restroom, tripping but managing to stay upright as I rounded the corner and pressed my back to the inside wall. It wasn’t the safety net I’d hoped for.

Ten stalls in the women’s restroom, and not one woman in it. What were the odds? The emptiness of the room sunk into my chest, still heaving. I didn’t know if he’d come into the ladies’ room or not, but my best guess was that he would as soon as he realized there were no witnesses.

I ran for the farthest stall and slammed the lid on the toilet down. My hands shook violently as I pulled the phone from the bag and tried to rip the plastic packaging around it.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on!” My voice trembled with as much fervor as my hands, and I grudgingly wished for the pocketknife that had been in the bottom of my purse. A loud growl of frustration erupted from within me, and I slammed the package against the brick wall of the stall.

Damn it! I wasn’t going to get out of this alone—I knew that now. And as the realization washed over me that I, in fact, had no one else to rely on, I wondered if this wasn’t it. The end.

In a way, I welcomed it. I didn’t want to run anymore. This wasn’t a life I was living. I was merely existing, and only because they hadn’t found me. My only choices were to exist while they didn’t find me, or die when they did. Living didn’t seem to be an option anymore.

But, if I was going to give up, it wasn’t going to be without a fight.

“That’s how Mama would want it,” I whispered, shoving the phone back into the plastic bag.

I paused, but there was no sound coming from the other side of the stall door. Carefully, I slowly pulled the door open, silently praying it wouldn’t squeak. I chanced a peek out into the room, but I could only see the sinks and hand dryers.

The first person I see, I’ll ask for their phone, I promised myself. I’ll call the cops and tell them I’m being stalked. I repeated the mantra over and over in my head, willing it to fortify me as I emerged from the stall and slinked slowly toward the door.

I must’ve had myself convinced I was going to make it, my eyes locked on the doorway on the other side of the inside wall. Only a few more steps. One…two…

The blow hit me hard in the side of the head, and I gasped as the impact threw me into the brick wall, slamming the other side of my head against it.

My ears rang, and my vision blurred, but I fought, clawing blindly, trying to cover my face.

A sharp intake of breath met my ears as I managed to rake my fingernails down his face.

“Fuck!” My assailant growled in pain, and my efforts were met with another swift blow to the head.

My face was wet, and while I knew there was blood, it was mixed with hot tears as they streamed from my eyes. They stung as they fell from my eyes, onto my cheeks, and streaked jaggedly across my jaw.

“You knew this was coming.”

The words came out in a gruff and labored voice, but the man might as well have been discussing the weather with all the emotion he put behind them. He was making sure I had no doubt this act was governed by the reining hands of Creighton Banks himself.

His hands circled my throat now, and I choked and gagged as my own hands scratched and pushed violently to get him away from me. I shook my head, and kicked my feet—anything to try to free myself and take a breath in.

But the pressure of his thumbs pressing at the center of my throat was too great, and the painful hold he had on me was too much. He was bigger, stronger…

And I was weak.

“Hey!”

The voice came from the other end of the room, but I never got a chance to see him. Instead, the sweating, unshaven man on top of me gave a grunt of effort, lifted my head up by the chokehold he had around my neck, and slammed my head into the tile floor with all his might.