Shadowed

VII. The First Hunter

I trudge out of the parking garage and into another alleyway. I know I won't find her, but I still scan in every direction for some clue to which way Abby went.

There's nothing, not even a telltale footprint, but I expected that. I always make sure to step lightly for this very reason. Maybe I'm too paranoid. But no one wants to be followed, right?

She's gone. And my secret, with her.

I'm only two blocks from where Angella and James are concealed. To get there, I have to cross a busy street, though, which I'll only do if I really can't avoid it. There's nothing to hide behind when you're rushing in front of oncoming traffic, and every driver stares right at you and whispers something about those goddamn street trash to the person in the passenger's seat.

I edge along the side of a heavily graffitied wall and pass a kid, leaned up against the back of a run-down brick building. I've never seen him before, but he looks like he slept here. His eyes are red and puffy, and his freckled skin is ashen. He must be hungover.

I nod in his direction. He nods back, but doesn't say anything, so I continue through the alley. 

I can't remember the last time I was drunk. It must have been before I ran. Lily Grace and Jeremy and I used to go to parties every Friday night in high school, but after every fun person in that nightmare of a town went off to college or to their monotonous nine-to-fives, no one else really cared about partying anymore. Sometimes we would take shots in Lily Grace's apartment, but she was the only one of the three of us who had any money, and she also had a real job. It's hard to get the person who wants to drink the least to buy the alcohol.

I went to college too, of course, but it was hell. Everyone at that place was a pretentious asshole, and it came to a point where I was failing almost everything. I know I'm not stupid. I just didn't care enough to try. Even back then, I had an inkling that I wasn't getting older, so I think I knew that it really was pointless to stay. 

After I dropped out and came back to my parents' house, I'd sort of lost the taste for alcohol. I found that cigarettes were much easier to hide.

I still let myself have a bit of weed or a cigarette every now and then—Maya's really good at getting them for us—but I haven't touched alcohol in years. Drunk me always tended to be very talkative and friendly to strangers. I couldn't risk accidentally giving anything away while drunk that I'd worked so hard to hide.

I can hear the street from where I am. Cars going way over the speed limit whoosh past, and horns angrily blast every couple of seconds.

Rounding a corner out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, I jolt, startled. There's a woman leaned up against the side of the building right next to me. She's short, barely five feet, and her black hair is pulled into a smooth ponytail. I notice a lump right under the waistband of her leggings.

A moment goes by before I realize what it is. Holy shit. I haven't seen someone carrying around a gun in ages.

If I got shot, it wouldn't kill me, but I imagine I'd be in agonizing pain, so I quickly duck back out of sight. She's talking on a cell phone and hasn't seen me yet.

My first instinct is to get out of here and find another route back to Angella and James, but years of people-watching and overhearing conversations on the street have wired me to be curious, so I decide against it and flatten myself against the building. 

I try to stand completely still, listening as closely as I can to what she's saying over the roar of the street.

"I expected them back at noon," she says, her voice hushed and clipped. "They're late. And they didn't tell me which location they were going to."