as much distance as possible. She found the escalator, made her way back up to L3, where the bridge to the Pavilion Mall was.
She thanked God that she’d been paying attention, so she knew exactly where to go. Run. Run. Run. She heard shouts behind her, heard Cervantes’ voice, and she poured on speed, zigzagging through the crowds at a breakneck pace, crashing into people, knocking them aside and earning curses and shouts, not heeding them but only running faster. She saw the entrance to the bridge to the Pavilion Mall, choked with people. Her eyes scanned the crowd, seeking one face, one blond head standing over the rest. She didn’t see him, and felt despair. Surely he’d followed them?
Shouts of pursuit echoed behind her, and she knew she had to get out of this complex, away from the mall and Shaw. Running full sprint now, Wren found a stairway leading down, toward the street level, and she tore down it, slipping and tripping, slamming into walls. She exited, and felt the humid wall of heat blast her like a fist as she stumbled out into the open.
Hide, she had to hide. People would see her running and talk.
There: a Starbucks across the street, full of locals and tourists alike. She crossed the street at a fast walk, trying to slow down and not attract attention. She realized she looked just like everyone else, here, except few had the bruises on her face and the dried blood on her nose. Her clothes were ripped and filthy, showing too much skin in places. The shirt had been a blue V-neck, scooped low, but it had been torn at some point and now revealed the dirty white lace of her bra and the tan expanse of flesh it contained. People stared and pointed, and she knew all Cervantes had to do was question a few people in order to follow her trail.
She hurried through the congested traffic, causing a taxi to brake hard and nearly hit her. She entered the Starbucks, the familiar sight and sound and smell of the coffee shop comforting her. She was so thirsty, so hungry, so tired. She wanted to sink into a deep red suede chair and sip a latte, nibble on a blueberry muffin. Read back issues of The New York Times . Pretend to do the crossword.
She couldn’t do any of that, though. She pushed toward the back of the crowded store, past the clang of the espresso machine wands and the hiss of the steamer, ignoring the chatter and the music, jostling a display of travel mugs and pound-bags of exotic coffee beans. Cool air washed over her skin, drying the sweat and making her shiver. The ladies bathroom door swung open and a woman stepped out, blond hair and blue eyes, wearing an open white button-down shirt over a pink tank top and cut off jean shorts.
The woman cast a critical glance at Wren, and then her expression changed to concern. “You all right?” she asked, her accent faintly German.
Wren wanted to beg for help, plead, weep. “I just…I ripped my shirt.”
“Looks like more than that, sweetheart. You need a doctor.”
“I’m…I’m fine.” She resisted a glance over her shoulder for Cervantes, not wanting to look as desperate and terrified as she really was. “Can I borrow your button-down?”
The woman immediately shed the shirt and handed it to her. “Sure, honey. Here. Do you need anything else? Are you sure I can’t bring you to a doctor?” She leaned in close. “You don’t have to stay with him, honey. Don’t let him keep hurting you. Okay?” The woman turned away, and as she passed, she pressed a tightly folded wad of bills into Wren’s palm.
Wren slipped into the bathroom and locked it, then sat, trembling, on the toilet. She buried her face in her hands and let herself shake, but refused to cry. If she started crying, she’d never stop. After a moment, she forced herself to her feet and peeled the dirty, ripped T-shirt off her body, groaning in pain as her injured ribs protested. In the mirror, she saw the bruises on her torso and her face. No wonder the woman had
She thanked God that she’d been paying attention, so she knew exactly where to go. Run. Run. Run. She heard shouts behind her, heard Cervantes’ voice, and she poured on speed, zigzagging through the crowds at a breakneck pace, crashing into people, knocking them aside and earning curses and shouts, not heeding them but only running faster. She saw the entrance to the bridge to the Pavilion Mall, choked with people. Her eyes scanned the crowd, seeking one face, one blond head standing over the rest. She didn’t see him, and felt despair. Surely he’d followed them?
Shouts of pursuit echoed behind her, and she knew she had to get out of this complex, away from the mall and Shaw. Running full sprint now, Wren found a stairway leading down, toward the street level, and she tore down it, slipping and tripping, slamming into walls. She exited, and felt the humid wall of heat blast her like a fist as she stumbled out into the open.
Hide, she had to hide. People would see her running and talk.
There: a Starbucks across the street, full of locals and tourists alike. She crossed the street at a fast walk, trying to slow down and not attract attention. She realized she looked just like everyone else, here, except few had the bruises on her face and the dried blood on her nose. Her clothes were ripped and filthy, showing too much skin in places. The shirt had been a blue V-neck, scooped low, but it had been torn at some point and now revealed the dirty white lace of her bra and the tan expanse of flesh it contained. People stared and pointed, and she knew all Cervantes had to do was question a few people in order to follow her trail.
She hurried through the congested traffic, causing a taxi to brake hard and nearly hit her. She entered the Starbucks, the familiar sight and sound and smell of the coffee shop comforting her. She was so thirsty, so hungry, so tired. She wanted to sink into a deep red suede chair and sip a latte, nibble on a blueberry muffin. Read back issues of The New York Times . Pretend to do the crossword.
She couldn’t do any of that, though. She pushed toward the back of the crowded store, past the clang of the espresso machine wands and the hiss of the steamer, ignoring the chatter and the music, jostling a display of travel mugs and pound-bags of exotic coffee beans. Cool air washed over her skin, drying the sweat and making her shiver. The ladies bathroom door swung open and a woman stepped out, blond hair and blue eyes, wearing an open white button-down shirt over a pink tank top and cut off jean shorts.
The woman cast a critical glance at Wren, and then her expression changed to concern. “You all right?” she asked, her accent faintly German.
Wren wanted to beg for help, plead, weep. “I just…I ripped my shirt.”
“Looks like more than that, sweetheart. You need a doctor.”
“I’m…I’m fine.” She resisted a glance over her shoulder for Cervantes, not wanting to look as desperate and terrified as she really was. “Can I borrow your button-down?”
The woman immediately shed the shirt and handed it to her. “Sure, honey. Here. Do you need anything else? Are you sure I can’t bring you to a doctor?” She leaned in close. “You don’t have to stay with him, honey. Don’t let him keep hurting you. Okay?” The woman turned away, and as she passed, she pressed a tightly folded wad of bills into Wren’s palm.
Wren slipped into the bathroom and locked it, then sat, trembling, on the toilet. She buried her face in her hands and let herself shake, but refused to cry. If she started crying, she’d never stop. After a moment, she forced herself to her feet and peeled the dirty, ripped T-shirt off her body, groaning in pain as her injured ribs protested. In the mirror, she saw the bruises on her torso and her face. No wonder the woman had
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