Yep, another jogger.
And a fast one, from the sounds of it.
She glanced over her shoulder, saw no one, and picked up her pace. It was time to go home, stand under a warm shower, and try to feel better. There were still three more days of school before the holiday—
The footsteps were closer now.
Clipping along. Rapidly.
Again, she turned her head.
The path behind her was empty.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
It’s just your imagination, Jocelyn. Nothing sinister.
Ignoring the burning in her lungs and the cramping in her calves, she kicked into a sprint, running quickly through the trees. It was dark now, only a few lamps offering any kind of illumination, the trees with their black trunks stark as they rose from the winter-bleached grass, a blur.
Don’t freak out. There’s no reason to freak out. Even though you don’t have your phone with you, it’s nothing to worry about.
She was really sweating now.
The main road rimming the bluff was close, just around the next corner—
“Oh!”
She caught a glimpse of the other jogger, a tall, athletic man dressed head to toe in black running gear and a ski mask.
Her heart clutched.
Nothing to worry about. Let him pass.
Adrenaline sped through her bloodstream. She kicked her pace up a notch, to a full-blown run, her feet slapping the path faster and faster, her breath hard.
It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right….
But was it?
He was closing quickly.
Panic swept through her.
He was close enough that she could hear his breathing. Strong. Steady—
The toe of her running shoe caught, and she stumbled forward, arms flying. She managed to catch herself before she went down and somehow kept her balance, though her stride was off.
“Careful,” a deep voice said from behind.
Oh, God! He was only two steps away.
She set her jaw. Told herself to be calm.
Did his voice sound familiar?
Her heart raced crazily.
Out of the park she ran. Onto the path edging the bluff. She’d hoped that he would turn the opposite direction, but he was just a step behind her, heading for the downhill run. Maybe she should just stop and let him breeze by.
If only she had her damned phone.
Or the canister of pepper spray she kept in her purse.
“On your right,” he said, catching up with her, matching her pace stride for stride. Now was the time to pull back. “Enjoying yourself, Josie?” he asked.
Josie? She nearly tripped again He knew her? Oh, God, why was his voice familiar?
“You should be careful, y’know.” His shoulder bumped against hers.
She lost her footing and was starting to go down when he suddenly caught her, the fingers of one strong hand circling her upper arm.
“I told you to be careful!” he declared, his grip tight, painful.
“Let go of me! Who are you?” she demanded as they both stopped. Behind his ski mask he was breathing loudly.
“Don’t you know?” His fingers grew punishing.
“Who you are? No! I said, let go of. . Hey!” He jerked hard on her arm. “What’re you doing?” But she knew. In one heart-stopping second, she realized he meant to kill her! “Let go of me!” Her feet slipped out from under her as he pushed, and before she realized what was happening, he propelled her to the side of the cliff and the short stone railing. “Don’t! Oh, God, Help me! Help!” She was scrambling now, certain of the son of a bitch’s intent.
Oh, God, no! No!
Frantic, she flailed, trying to keep her balance as he shoved her sharply against the stone rail, cracking her shins.
Pain screamed up her legs.
“No!” She fought, but it was no use. He pushed hard, and her weight forced her over the guardrail. To her horror, arms windmilling, she went sailing into the growing darkness. Screaming, she tumbled through the air to land hard against the frozen hillside.
Crack!
Her head banged against a rock, and the world spun as she slid and bounced, twisting and rolling, trying to grab on to anything, her fingers scraping over dirt, roots, and rocks as she slid down the cliff face.
Please, God, help me—
Pain ricocheted up her spine, and somewhere in the distance she heard the roar of rushing water. Closer as she rolled, faster and faster, out of control, her skin bleeding, the world spinning.
But far above she caught a glimpse of him standing high above her, a black figure in the night, looking down.
Waiting.
For her to die.
CHAPTER 4
Trace O’Halleran was pissed.
In fact, he was pissed as hell as he drove ten miles over the speed limit from Evergreen Elementary School, where he’d picked up his kid; now they were on their way to the clinic for X-rays as Eli had been hurt on the playground.
Someone hadn’t been watching his boy, and once Trace was assured that Eli was all right, that someone had some serious explaining to do!
“Hang in there, buddy,” he said to his son, who was seated beside him in his battered old pickup.
Eli nodded and sniffed, either fighting tears or a nasty cold that had been hanging on for about a week.
Squinting through the windshield as the first flakes of snow swirled to the ground, Trace followed the steady stream of traffic that drove down the hillside known as Boxer Bluff to the section of town spread upon the banks of the Grizzly River.
Eli, all of seven, cradled his left arm, which was already in a splint and a sling compliments of an overworked school nurse, whose advice was, “He needs to see a doctor. I’ve already called the clinic on A Street, so you shouldn’t have to wait, like you might at Pinewood Community or St. Bartholomew’s. Have the arm x-rayed. I don’t think it’s broken, but there could be a hairline fracture. The clinic has a lab. While you’re there, you might have the doctor check his ears and throat. I ran his temp, and he’s got a bit of a fever — a hundred and one.”
Trace hadn’t argued against driving to the hospital. Once, he’d sat in the emergency room at St. Bart’s for five hours before anyone could look at his mangled hand, the result of his wedding ring getting caught on a cog of his combine machine when he’d been harvesting wheat. The combination harvester and thresher had nearly torn his arm off before he’d been able to shut it down. Even after saving his arm, he’d almost had to have his ring finger amputated. In the end his finger had been saved, but the nerve damage had been severe enough that he’d lost any feeling in that finger. He’d decided then and there he’d never wear the wedding band again. It hadn’t really mattered, anyway. Leanna, Eli’s mother, had already had one foot out the door.
No, Trace didn’t want his kid to sit on the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the waiting room at St. Bartholomew Hospital, if he could avoid it. They’d start with the clinic, the same damned low-slung building that had been servicing patients for nearly seventy years. Of course, over its life span, the building housing the clinic had been remodeled several times.
Trace’s own father had taken him to the place nearly thirty years earlier, after he’d been bucked off Rocky, the spirited bay gelding that his father had taken in trade for three head of cattle. Rocky had once been a rodeo bronc, and when Trace, at nine, had tried to ride him, some of the gelding’s old fire had resurfaced and he’d sent Trace flying. The result was a concussion and old Doc Mallory’s advice after a quick examination. “For the love of Mike, boy, use the brain God gave you and stay off wild horses!”