Nowhere to Run by Nancy Bush

across the way, from the side of the street she’d just crossed. Two people, a man from one car, a woman from the other, were stepping stiffly toward each other to exchange insurance information.
    Her mouth was dry. The shadow . . . was she being watched? It felt like she was being watched. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
    â€œYou’re wearing a jacket,” the man observed. He was watching her. They all were. Everyone in the coffeehouse.
    â€œI run cold,” she murmured. She was sweating inside, though. She hoped it didn’t show on her face.
    The line had grown longer; the barista unable to keep up with the demand, so a sullen-looking, male coworker with dark, suspicious eyes joined her. Liv tamped down the tide of fear threatening to wash over her and picked up her coffee, drinking a slug of liquid as if it were water to a lost desert traveler.
    Her companion’s eyes were on her face. “I’m fine,” she said.
    â€œYou don’t look fine. You don’t have any color, at all.”
    â€œDid you hear about the killing at Zuma Software?” a voice called from somewhere in line.
    Liv whipped around. It was a woman’s voice. She was standing at the counter, digging through a coin purse for change, making small talk. The sullen helper was waiting for her to count out the coins, a peeved expression on his face. The two men in line in front of her had already been served.
    â€œIt’s breaking news,” another woman answered her, now several people behind her. “Broke in while I was watching TV. The owner, Kurt Upjohn, is in critical condition. Somebody else, too.”
    â€œThere were two women,” the first lady said, turning around to gaze at the second. “One got shot, but one wasn’t there. They think maybe she did it.”
    Liv nearly gasped. Who? Who thinks that?
    â€œShe killed all her coworkers? Mowed ’em down?” the second woman sounded disbelieving.
    â€œThey’re looking for her. That’s all I know.”
    The man across from Liv was staring at her as if he knew— knew —who she was. Liv warred with herself as several more people went through the line. She wanted to bolt out the door. She needed to escape. They were looking for her. Of course, they were looking for her.
    But she didn’t want to be caught. Couldn’t be caught.
    Carefully, she took several more swallows of her coffee, then she scraped back her chair, picked up her backpack and stood.
    â€œLeaving so soon?” the man asked her, his lips smiling, his eyes cold. Or was that her imagination?
    She didn’t answer, just sidestepped around the tables toward the door that seemed miles away even though it was only twenty feet. She reached the handle, and it burst inward, and she was nearly mowed down by two policemen in uniform.
    Her vision blurred. She couldn’t turn around. She heard them address the barista: We’re looking for someone....
    Panic licked through her again. She stepped out. On the street it was hot. The sidewalk sent up a wave of heat. A dark gray Jeep was parked directly in front of her. A man was circling the front of it, unlocking the doors, sliding into the driver’s seat, balancing a cup of coffee.
    She walked toward the passenger door and flung it open just as he slammed the driver’s door shut and was in the act of putting his drink into a cup holder. “Hey,” he said, gazing at her in surprise.
    She slid inside and closed the door behind her, clutching her backpack, her heart jumping crazily inside her chest. “I need you to take me somewhere.”
    â€œYeah?” he asked cautiously, looking for all the world like he was about to throw her out.
    With deceptive calm, she withdrew her .38 from the backpack and leveled it at him. “I’m a pretty good shot. I’m sorry. I really am. You just need to drive me away from here.”
    He was good-looking. Black hair, blue-gray eyes, a strong