“You should stay here, get help for your arm,” Priscilla said, then broke into a run down the path. Too much time had been wasted already. The shooter could be around the back of the building searching for her. He’d find the path easily enough. She had to be on the bus heading to Mac and safety.
A branch snapped behind her. She risked a glance to see Mr. Long, his face pale, jogging along the trail. He should be waiting for medical attention, not following her.
Ignoring him, she slowed slightly to check the Next Bus app. The Gold 1 Cue bus would arrive in seven minutes at the closest stop. The next bus heading in the right direction wouldn’t be coming for another thirty minutes—she definitely couldn’t wait around for that one.
Priscilla increased her pace, pushing through the stitch in her side. If only she liked running, she’d be in better shape. Her lungs burned as she sucked in more air before checking the time on the app again. Four minutes to the bus’s arrival. Right up ahead, Priscilla saw the trail spur to the street on the left and took it, pulling on her reserves to make it up the steeper incline without slowing her speed.
Mr. Long grunted as he tried to keep up. Her conscience chided her for caring only for her own skin and not about whether he would pass out on the trail. But he didn’t have to follow her.
“You should have waited for medical help,” she said over her shoulder.
The man merely shook his head, and she turned her attention back to the path. Somehow, as she cut his hair, she hadn’t been afraid of him. After living for years fearful of her fellow human beings, she had learned to trust her instincts when it came to who she could trust and who she couldn’t. The way he’d thanked God for her safety and stepped between her and the dog walkers had reaffirmed what her gut had told her—that she could trust him. Too bad, she would have to find a way to lose him before his association with her got him killed.
Priscilla reached the edge of the woods and halted to check the bus arrival time once more. Craning her neck to view the street, she saw that everything appeared normal. A woman with a baby in a stroller and a preschooler holding on to the handle waited at the bus stop. That meant Priscilla could hang back at the tree line until the bus approached the stop.
“Why were you running? Shouldn’t we have waited to talk with the police?” Mr. Long braced himself against a tree, his complexion gray.
“You need to see a doctor.” Priscilla feared Mr. Long would collapse right there. If he did, she would miss her bus, because she couldn’t just leave a hurt man to fend for himself, not when he was injured on her account.
“I need to speak with you.”
The simplicity of his request startled her, and an alarm bell rang inside her head. She narrowed her eyes. “You are following me.”
Mr. Long stayed bent over, his forehead resting against his right arm propped on the tree. “You noticed?”
Priscilla ticked off the incidents on her fingers. “The grocery store, jogging by my apartment building, today outside Snippy’s. Here beside me now. You weren’t exactly subtle.”
The man shifted upright with a wince. Then his eyes closed and his body slumped toward the tree.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Priscilla hastened to his side and grabbed his right arm. “Don’t you faint on me.” She slung the arm over her shoulders, nestling underneath to support him. “You need to stay upright.”
“I’ll be okay,” he mumbled against her hair. “Just give me...a minute.”
Priscilla didn’t have a minute. The bus rumbled up to the curb. Taking him with her presented its own set of problems, but she had no time to dither over a decision. Better take him with her—at the very least, she could find out why he had been following her.
“I don’t have a minute. The bus is here, and I need to get on it.” Without another word, she started off toward the bus. To her relief, he stayed upright and leaned on her only a little bit.
“Bus? But my car’s in the parking lot.” His words came out a bit slurred as if pain was dulling his senses.
“No time. Now keep quiet.” Priscilla dug a ten-dollar bill out of her work apron and fed it into the meter. “For both of us,” she told the driver, an older woman wearing a Santa hat with cropped hair and a name tag that read Charlene Grant.