The bus station smelled of wet concrete and old coffee.
Katie clutched her small, battered suitcase, her fingers aching from how tightly she gripped the handle. Rain hammered the roof overhead, drowning out the echo of footsteps she swore she still heard.
She hadn't looked back when she ran. She couldn't. Looking back meant slowing down, and slowing down meant he'd catch her.
Her hair stuck to her cheeks as she stepped to the ticket counter. "Next bus out," she whispered.
The man behind the glass glanced at the clock. "Next one's to Southport. Leaves in five."
"Fine," she said. It didn't matter where. Nowhere was better than here.
As she slid the crumpled cash across the counter, she felt it, that prickle on the back of her neck. The feeling of eyes on her.
Katie turned, scanning the sparse crowd. Just a few passengers, a woman with a crying baby, a man reading a newspaper. But near the entrance, half-hidden by the rain, stood a tall figure in a dark coat.
Her stomach dropped.
The bus driver shouted, "Southport! Last call!"
She gripped her suitcase and ran.