Kat’s breath chuffed out in frosty clouds as icy wind howled through the narrow alley nestled between the towering brick wall of a Trader Joe’s and a run-down church. Hidden behind a sagging chain-link fence wrapped in tarp and weathered signs boasting
People for the Steeple, she rubbed her numb hands together, hoping to feel something. Gaps in the fence allowed slivers of moonlight to pierce through, casting eerie shadows her imagination built into creeping beasts. Her stomach growled, as the monsters couldn’t.
She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering then wiped her running nose on her sleeve and tried, again, to sleep. She had a house, half hers by law. A warm, cozy place with locks on the doors, running water, and beds. Her bed sat empty in her room, which was full of her books and puzzles. The knowledge made sitting there, hiding in a construction zone, in the cold, a thousand times worse. But if she went home they’d find her.
Kat didn’t know she’d drifted off until the voices woke her.
“Give it to me,” a man said.
“My money first,” another responded.
The voices were hushed, but the first man’s anger was clear. The second man’s voice quivered. Sounded fearful. Kat lowered herself, shrunk back into the church’s shadow, hugging her backpack close to her chest as she tried to make herself smaller. If they found her…
A muffled thump, like something heavy falling, followed in the silence. Scrunched down as she was, Kat could see a small duffel bag on the ground through a tear in the tarp. A man came into view, bent over the duffel. Light glinted, and she blinked as it reflected into her eyes. The man’s hand came up to his throat. Something dark and wet pumped through his fingers. He gurgled and quietly fell to the sidewalk.
Kat scrambled back, and the rubber soles of her sneakers squeaked on the pavement. The fence rattled, and a man dropped to his feet in front of her. The knife in his hand dripped. Time froze. He was tall and beefy, with a saggy chin like the guy down the street from her grandmother’s house who drank too much and sang off-key. But unlike Mr. Grady, this man had mean eyes under thick, graying eyebrows.
She shifted onto the balls of her feet and sprung as he lunged. Swinging her pack over one shoulder, she vaulted the stone banister and ran toward Broad Street. Hurdled buckets of plaster and paint, then darted around an upended wheelbarrow. He followed, crashing into things as he went. Her heart pounded. Kat scooted and slid through a hole in the fence. It was too small for him to follow. It was barely big enough for her to squeeze through. Something burned across her cheek and yanked her hair, jerking her head back.
Hair tore from her scalp as she pumped her legs. Kat exploded onto Broad Street. Didn’t dare look back. She scanned right and left. Cops! She ran toward them, ignored the people she bumped into and pushed out of her way. She skidded to a stop where two officers stood talking with steam rising from paper cups clutched in their hands and City Hall looming behind them.
“Hey, kiddo, where’s the fire?” the younger of the two asked.
“He killed him,” she panted. “He killed him.”
“Get home, girlie, it’s late.” The other, an older man who reminded her of the one chasing her, looked away. She swung out. Her hand struck his arm. Coffee spilled down the front of his uniform. “Son of a bitch! You asked for this, brat. You’re under arrest.”
“Sherman, come on, man. Let it go. Look at her.”
“Screw that.” He crushed the paper cup, tossed it in a nearby trash can, and unhooked his handcuffs.
The light from the streetlamps glinted off the metal. They clicked like angry crabs dangling from his hand as he reached for her. I could run. The fat one wouldn’t follow or not for long. The younger didn’t want to arrest her but if he ran after her, he’d catch her. Nausea twisted Kat’s empty stomach. She looked over her shoulder. The man with the mean eyes stared back from half a block away. Safer with the cops. Kat held her hands out, palms up, like she’d seen on television.
