Page 142 of Jack

Run!

Her only thought. And maybe she should have aimed for the house, but no, Kyle stood between her and the front porch. So Harper turned and fled, still wearing her pumps, which immediately morphed into skates.

She slipped, landed on all fours, then scampered up as she saw Kyle push Penelope so hard she hit the porch.

Then he rounded, his eyes on Harper.

She kicked off her pumps and scrambled to her bare feet.

And fled.

Through the snow as the fading afternoon light cast over the crusty surface, almost illuminating her path. She didn’t need a map—she knew exactly where the forest floor dented, where it opened, and how far she’d have to run to reach 458 Whispering Pines Drive.

More than a few overgrown branches hit her face, her arms, and she’d lost feeling in her feet, but she kept moving.

Her pursuer thundered through the forest behind her, breaking branches, grunting.

She had never run so fast.

The cottage sat snow-covered and dark through the trees, no smoke from the fireplace. Only then did she remember her mother’s words about this weekend’s conference.

Get inside. Barricade. Call the sheriff.

Her foot broke through a crusty edge, landed on a branch, twisted.

She tumbled through the snow, slammed into a tree. Lay dazed, breathing hard.

Get up. Get . . .up!

She rolled, tried to find her feet, but her ankle screamed.Shoot. No!

It would not end like this. She had a better—muchbetter—future planned for herself. And yes, it might not include Jack, but she didn’t have to stop dreaming. Stop hoping.

“God has good things for those who trust His love for them.”

Maybe it wasn’t about her dreaming but about her trusting.Yes.

But first she had to stay alive?—

Branches breaking, feet thumping. She turned.

Kyle flung himself at her. She screamed and barely dodged his grip. He landed with awhoof!in the snow.

For a split second she debated turning, kicking him, fighting back, but?—

But she was a reporter, not a superhero. She turned and fled, her feet breaking through, her hands slapping away branches. She held in a shout at the pain screaming up her leg.

She made it to her yard before Kyle caught up. He launched himself again and took her down.

The snow cushioned her fall, but it still jarred her breath.

He rolled her over, and she tried to backhand him. He caught her wrist, shoved it down. “I just want to talk!”

“This isn’t talking!”

“No, I need it to beover,” he growled, and brought back his fist?—

She closed her eyes, bracing herself.