Page 8 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Blair

My apartment was suffocating me.

Everywhere I went, I was either overwhelmed with all the lost dreams swept under the rugs and hiding in the corners, or distracted by my packing.

Was I going to pay a hefty fee to break my lease? Absolutely. Would it be worth it to start over (again)? I thought so.

It honestly hadn’t really even crossed my mind until Nico mentioned it.

I’d spent months finding the perfect apartment.

One that had been redone enough that I didn’t have to worry about strangers in my space, but still kept its bones.

One with extra bedrooms for an office and kids.

One with a large kitchen that spilled into the living room so I wouldn’t be isolated from everyone as I cooked meals.

In a good school district. With great parks and markets close-by.

It had been the perfect apartment for the family I so desperately wanted.

But with those dreams shattered, it was time to move on. Immediately. If at all possible.

I’d wasted no time getting in touch with Nico’s real estate agent, telling her my price range and list of necessities (location, doorman, laundry in the apartment, large kitchen, soaking tub, updated, and with a gym in the building or one nearby) as well as some other wishlist items. The one thing I’d compromised on with my current place was having a small and windowless office.

I wanted everything to be drenched in sunlight in the new place.

Hoping, I guess, that it would chase away any possible ghosts haunting dark corners or hiding in my closets.

So far, I had two apartments I liked but wasn’t fully in love with. That said, I had ninety-percent of everything I owned in boxes. Because the second I found the right place, I was gone.

Even knowing that, the damn boxes everywhere felt like they were suffocating me.

I needed to get out.

I’d been standing in my living room in my black leggings and matching t-shirt, sports bra, running shoes, and ‘safe’ earbuds (that let you hear your surroundings as well as your audio) all ready to go.

Just waiting for sunrise.

It crept up like hope—soft, unhurried, full of promise. The night’s shadows withdrew with grace, and in their place, golden light bloomed like second chances.

Rolling the tension out of my neck, I made my way out of my building, bouncing on my toes at the crosswalk, then making my way across the street toward Central Park.

I’d been running the paths since I was a somewhat chunky pre-teen getting relentlessly teased by the skinny girls at school. In those early days—red-faced, chest aching, legs screaming—I hated every step of my daily run.

But as my body got accustomed to the movement, stamina increasing, muscles forming, it became one of the favorite parts of my day.

It cleared my head.

It chased away the stagnant energy in my body.

I’d been running a lot since I’d gotten married.

More so the past few months.

I could run every path blindfolded after all these years.

Having no work to do, I went for an already ambitious run of the full “loop” around the whole park. Six point one miles of mind-clearing cardio with fellow early risers: runners, cyclists, people walking their dogs before work.

But by the time I was done with that, my mind was still racing in dizzying circles.

With a sigh, I made my way toward the 110 th entrance to the North Woods.

It wasn’t an area I ran often. There was something both exotic and eerie about it. It wasn’t long before you no longer felt like you were in the city. Before the lush greenery swallowed you up completely, pulling you into a world that felt more fae than human.

But I figured maybe what I really needed was a change of environment to get out of my head.

What better change in scenery than cobblestone steps, footbridges, and waterfalls?

It was one of the few places in the city where you could feel—and be—completely alone.

I felt my shoulders lowering, my muscles loosening as I was transported into a whole different world.

Up above, there was a heavy canopy of trees, making sunlight dapple through, cooling the space by a solid ten degrees.

My pace slowed as gravel paths gave way to packed dirt and stone steps, large roots and rocky outcrops making a rolled ankle more of a possibility.

Besides, this was the kind of place that begged you to slow down, to take it all in.

Somewhere off the side of the path, I could hear the babbling of a stream and, further still, the rush of a waterfall.

It was as I was approaching the Glen Span Arch—an underpass of pure gothic gorgeous creepiness—that I heard it.

A crunch behind me.

My heart leapt as my stomach plummeted.

My hand went immediately for my phone, toggling off my music. But my chest felt tight when I saw the little red X over my service reception.

I pushed myself a little faster, ignoring the impulse to slow down as I moved through the narrow space under the arch where one wrong step could have you falling off the path and into the murky water.

It was probably just a squirrel, for goodness’ sakes. There weren’t a lot of places in the city for the wildlife to live their little lives. The parks were full of critters.

But there was no reasoning with my panic as I heard another sound. Not a crack.

No.

That sounded like a set of footfalls.

Adrenaline surged, a shaky sensation taking over my whole body as I emerged from the arch.

Steeling myself, I glanced back over my shoulder.

And there he was.

Just a few paces behind me. Tall, wearing basic running gear, a baseball cap pulled down low so his whole face was in shadow.

He could just be a runner.

But, generally, male runners in the city knew not to creep up on solo female runners. There was just, I don’t know, some unspoken etiquette.

Besides, when he saw me spot him, he ducked low and charged forward.

A strangled yip escaped me as I flew into a full-blown sprint.

The path sloped upward as the tree branches slapped my arms and the side of my face.

Beneath my feet, roots threatened to twist my ankle; the rocky ground made my steps sloppy and slow.

I heard nothing.

But I didn’t trust nothing.

Not with the way my pulse was whooshing in my ears.

Steeling my stomach, I whipped my head over my shoulder.

And there he was.

Close.

Almost close enough to grab me.

And, surely, that was his plan.

You didn’t, as a woman, run in secluded places without knowing what risks you were taking. That at any turn on your path, you could come across a man with bad intentions.

Aside from one small incident when I’d been a teenager, though, I’d never had an issue.

I turned back.

But too late to see it.

A giant tree limb in the path.

I didn’t know it was there until I was tripping over it, flying forward, throwing out my hands to brace the fall.

I went down hard, palms landing on rough gravel and twigs, the pain of the impact ricocheting up to my shoulders.

I scrambled forward, trying to keep moving, trying to push up, trying to…

A hand closed around my ankle, pulling back.

A shrill sound escaped me—high and feral—as I yanked it back toward my body, then kicked back with everything in me.

I heard a thud behind me.

But the movement had me sprawling down, scraping my chin.

A whimper crept out of me as I got back onto all fours, then pushed up to a crouch.

Then I was running again as I rounded The Pool—possibly the most serene area of Central Park, with its still water and picture-perfect greenery.

I saw flashes of people up ahead, but unfortunately knew better than to expect them to be my savior.

I’d once watched a woman get pushed up against the wall by a stranger, his hand slipping under her shirt as she screamed for help. And people ducked their heads and kept walking. It was the girl’s own instincts—a ruthless knee to the groin—that saved her.

I had to get out of the park.

If I got out of the park, I could find safety.

In a cab. In a restaurant or store.

So I ignored the screaming in my thighs, my lungs feeling like I’d run through a fire, my whole body slick with sweat.

Past the pond.

Up ahead, the tree-lined exit.

I had no idea if the man was still behind me, if he was gaining on me. I just knew I had to get out onto the street.

With one final push, I surged through.

There was no grand gate at the 102nd entrance. No open lawn. Just the park edge buffered by green and a residential street stretching out before me.

I flew forward.

Past a dog walker with two Golden Retrievers who wiggled as I whizzed by.

Then I saw him.

A dozen yards forward at most.

The same dark hair, wide shoulders, great suit, handsome face, stormy blue eyes.

He was turned to look down the street, so he didn’t know I was there until I was right on top of him.

“Blair?” he asked, registering me as I flew behind him, grubby hands grabbing his suit jacket as I hid behind him.

“Someone was following me,” I panted.

“Where?” he asked, stiffening.

“Park,” I gasped, pressing my forehead into his back as I tried to calm my breathing and pulse.

“Do you see him now?” he asked, voice tight.

I didn’t want to look. But I leaned out from behind him, my gaze scanning the streets, looking for the blue shorts, the white tee, the baseball cap.

“No.”

“Okay. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

Nico turned, forcing my hands to fall from his jacket.

His blue eyes took me in—wet hair falling out of my ponytail, my face no doubt red and streaked in sweat and dirt.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, hand lifting toward my face, then falling again.

“I fell.”

“Alright. I live right around here. Want to come to my place so I can get you cleaned up?”

I was nodding before I could think better of it.

All I wanted was to be somewhere safe, to get a moment to cool off and calm down.

“Come on, honey,” he said, placing a hand at the small of my back, but not actually touching me. “I’m around the corner.”

He led me toward a towering luxury apartment building, and we rode silently up to the second to last floor.