Page 14 of Twisted Vows

She blinks, peering at the man I point to, his face shadowed by the cap. “Him? Probably a parent.”

“No kid near him.”

She shrugs, her laughter bubbling bright. “You’re too suspicious, Soph. Not every guy standing alone is a hitman.”

The word lands like a punch. She doesn’t know how close to the truth she is.

Her chuckle scrapes my nerves raw. I wish I could join her. I wish my paranoia were just my imagination.

But my trauma has sharpened my senses, and experiences don’t lie.

Finally, the last child waves goodbye and pumps across the lot with those little legs, and a heavy silence descends over the yard. I look up, but the man’s gone.

Maybe Clara’s right. I shrug her off and return to the classroom to start packing books, crayons, and next week’s lesson plans. When I lock the door, I check it again and again before walking back toward the lot. Outside, dusk paints long shadows across the pavement. Down the street, yellow cab lights glimmer, but my eyes snag on him again.

The tattooed man leans against a lamppost, staring across the street like he has nowhere else to be.

It’s happening again.

My heart’s racing. I pivot, pretending it’s nothing as my feet move toward the bus stop. I need to find a crowd and blend in so I can lose him, and I’d feel too out in the open if I hopped into my Civic.

The bus groans to a stop, coughing up diesel smoke. As I climb on, my hand clamps the bar so tightly, my knuckles blanche. My eyes dart from face to face, at commuters, teenagers, and a woman humming to herself. No sign of him. Thin, cold relief trickles through me.

Dad always warned me, “Criminals stalk before they strike, like wolves trailing deer until their legs tremble.”

When the bus halts at the stop near my apartment, I jump out quickly, and my shoes hit the pavement. The second I notice no shadow waiting for me, my heart lifts, but that relief is short-lived.

My eyes settle on two men near the building’s entrance. One rolls a cigarette, from which smoke curls into the air, while the other scratches his neck. Teacher eyes are good for something, because I spot the same snake and dagger tattoo right away.

I fold my arms across my chest, forming an instinctual yet useless shield. I choose the alleyway instead, a shortcut slicing between brick walls that reek of piss and mildew.

“Hey!” a voice barks.

Run.

Immediately, I hear my dad’s old warning. “Not run…never run. That’s how prey gets caught.” But my legs are already moving.

My shoes slap concrete as I gain the highest speed I’ve ever had since high school track events. My lungs burn, and my body files a formal complaint after five years of no cardio.

The men chase after me. Ironically, the smoker’s the faster one. His rough fingers seize my arms and yank me backward. As fear clamps down on me and the world slows, I spy a rotting plank leaning against the wall. I grab the splintered wood, spin, and swing as hard as I can.

The wood cracks against his skull, the impact jolting up my arms. The man stumbles back, cursing while clutching his bloody head. Thick, dark liquid drips down his wrist.

My hands shake, still gripping the plank.

I did that. Me. A kindergarten teacher.

The second man is closing in, so I sprint forward.

Then tires screech, and a black van swings around the corner. The door slides open with a metallic bang, and two more men jump out and lunge at me.

The bald one catches my wrist, his fingers digging in like steel. I twist free and rake my nails across his face. He snarls, dabbing at the blood welling in thin lines down his cheek.

Another guy seizes my other arm. I kick, managing to connect my heel with his shin. He grunts but doesn’t budge.

A raw, desperate scream tears from my throat. “Let me go! Please…please!”

The third man—younger, with slicked-back dark hair—lunges forward and grabs my waist before lifting me off the ground. I thrash my leg and pound my fists against his shoulders and chest, yet my hands only meet solid, unyielding muscle.