Still, although she’d moved, covered her tracks, still, there was always the chance he could find her.
She’d be on the subway or at the grocery store, at a bar or restaurant with friends, and she’d think that she saw him. He’d be there. In the corner of the room. She’d clearly see his rubicund face. She’d see him in the oversized Adidas tracksuits he’d wear. She’d see him, from the corner of her eye, so vividly that she’d get cotton-mouthed and icy shakes of terror would barb up her spine. Gasping, her heart would skip a beat. But then she’d look again, and mercifully, he’d be gone. Or just invisible again.