Page 76 of The Last Close Call

Jack raced after him, heart thundering. It was him. He knew it in his bones. But he’d disappeared into the woods. Jack scrambled up the side of the creek, grabbing branches with his free hand to haul himself up. Then he was in the thicket again, and thorns snagged his arms as he swiped at branches. He plunged through the brush, following the swish of leaves ahead of him while branches thwacked him in the face. Adrenaline pumped through him as he barreled through the darkness after the target that had eluded him for years. Jack had never been this close, so close he could smell the man’s sweat.

Batting at branches, Jack plowed through the thicket. His breath was coming hard and fast as he strained to catch up, but he couldn’t even see the guy. Frustration burned inside him, spurring him on, but the noise faded and then disappeared. Jack moved faster, desperate to catch up. Where the hell had he gone?

He stopped and went still, straining to listen.

No sound. No movement.

Nothing but the crazy galloping of his own heart.

Snick.

Jack whirled around. A shadow moved behind him. Jack lunged after it, grasping at the darkness.

Pain lanced up his arm. A sharp blow to his back made him pitch forward onto the ground. Gripping his weapon, he scrambled to his feet and charged after the man. But where the hell was he? Jack ran along the uneven terrain, holding his hand out in case he ran straight into a tree.

Jack heard rustling in the distance. He jumped back into the creek bed and sprinted toward the sound as it faded away. Turning on his flashlight, he shined it ahead at the tangle of vines and leaves.

But there wasn’t a sound. Or even a shadow.

Jack switched off his light to make himself invisible and once again strained to listen. Nothing. Just thick, heavy darkness all around him.

Pain pulsed between his shoulder blades. A warm trickle of blood slid down his arm and dripped off his fingertips. Anger washed over him as he stood in the creek bed and did a slow 360.

In the distance, a car door slammed and then an engine roared to life. Cursing, Jack ran toward the sound, but it was pointless. The engine gunned and then the noise faded until it was gone.

SIXTEEN

Rowan pounded down the trail, trying to find her rhythm as she scanned the path. In the muted winter sunlight, everything looked familiar, but not. The mile markers were new. Ditto the solar-powered trail lamps. But the trees looked the same, and Rowan instinctively ducked her head as she came to the thick, gnarled oak that dipped low over the path. She set a brisk pace, alert for anyone who made eye contact too long or who looked out of place with all the Saturday runners in body-hugging Spandex.

Rowan stopped as she neared a fork. Stepping out of the traffic flow, she pretended to do side stretches as she checked behind her for anyone suspicious.

She hadn’t done this in years, but it all came back to her, pure muscle memory. It was like swimming the breaststroke. Or balancing on a skateboard. Jogging while remaining hypervigilant was a skill like any other, but Rowan was out of practice.

She veered left at the fork, taking the proverbial road less traveled, which in this case traveled directly past Olivia’s old apartment. Rowan scanned the brush, wondering if any of the cottonwoods or sycamores had provided Will Anderson cover once upon a time. It only made sense. He’d been here. Logically, she knew it, but she still found it hard to believe that she might be walking in his footsteps.

Acid filled her stomach as she neared a familiar bend in the path. Rowan eyed the cut-through—a shortcut created by countless impatient college students who couldn’t be bothered to walk the extra eighth of a mile to the gate at the end of the street.

After another glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed—although, who knew, really?—she took the shortcut. Only a few paces in, she spied the familiar back porch and halted.

It was just like she remembered it. The porch consisted of a concrete slab with a balcony overhead that protected it from the elements. It looked exactly the same, except there was one of those hanging hammock chairs where Olivia’s wind chimes had been.

Rowan remembered the chimes and the whisper-soft tinkling they all used to listen to while passing the bong around. So many lifetimes ago, back when highs came as easily as falling asleep.

Rowan stared at the hammock. Navy blue. Maybe it was a man’s hammock, and she hoped so. She hoped a woman wouldn’t be careless enough to rent a first-floor unit with a sliding glass door.

She thought of Jack, with his solemn brown eyes as he talked about the victims. Jack was committed. Tenacious. This case needed someone like him, and she was glad he was on it.

But there was more. Something about him pulled at her. He was a gravitational force drawing her into his orbit, and she couldn’t move away. Or didn’t want to. She’d driven by his place last night after her dinner ended, but his light had been out, and she had resisted the temptation to stop.

I can’t get involved with you.

He’d looked surprised. And disappointed. But then he’d looked determined, and she knew she was in trouble.

Leaves rustled behind her, and she whirled around. A squirrel skittered across the path like it was made of hot coals and then raced up a tree.

Rowan picked her way through the overgrown foliage. She passed the side of Olivia’s building and came out near the familiar parking lot where the lines were painted too close together and door dings were rampant.

As she paused to look around, a white van with a satellite dish on top turned into the lot.

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