Page 24 of The Woman at the Funeral

And there he was.

Just a few paces behind me. Tall, wearing basic running gear, a baseball cap pulled down low so his whole face was in shadow.

He could just be a runner.

But, generally, male runners in the city knew not to creep up on solo female runners. There was just, I don’t know, some unspoken etiquette.

Besides, when he saw me spot him, he ducked low and charged forward.

A strangled yip escaped me as I flew into a full-blown sprint.

The path sloped upward as the tree branches slapped my arms and the side of my face.

Beneath my feet, roots threatened to twist my ankle; the rocky ground made my steps sloppy and slow.

I heard nothing.

But I didn’t trust nothing.

Not with the way my pulse was whooshing in my ears.

Steeling my stomach, I whipped my head over my shoulder.

And there he was.

Close.

Almost close enough to grab me.

And, surely, that was his plan.

You didn’t, as a woman, run in secluded places without knowing what risks you were taking. That at any turn on your path, you could come across a man with bad intentions.

Aside from one small incident when I’d been a teenager, though, I’d never had an issue.

I turned back.

But too late to see it.

A giant tree limb in the path.

I didn’t know it was there until I was tripping over it, flying forward, throwing out my hands to brace the fall.

I went down hard, palms landing on rough gravel and twigs, the pain of the impact ricocheting up to my shoulders.

I scrambled forward, trying to keep moving, trying to push up, trying to…

A hand closed around my ankle, pulling back.

A shrill sound escaped me—high and feral—as I yanked it back toward my body, then kicked back with everything in me.

I heard a thud behind me.

But the movement had me sprawling down, scraping my chin.

A whimper crept out of me as I got back onto all fours, then pushed up to a crouch.

Then I was running again as I rounded The Pool—possibly the most serene area of Central Park, with its still water and picture-perfect greenery.

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