Free Hope House by Tracy L Carbone

Massachusetts. She decided to backtrack and hit the coffee shop in search of cocoa. She turned around and there stood the dark-haired man again, but this time he was most definitely staring at her with intense interest. He looked away. If he were a stranger, why wouldn’t he just have smiled when they made eye contact? Why turn and pretend as if he wasn’t watching her?
    She ducked into the nearest ladies’ room. If she stayed in here awhile and the man was still outside the door, it would confirm her suspicions. She used the bathroom, washed her hands, freshened up her makeup. Next she put on a coat of clear nail polish to preserve her French manicure. Finally, she waved her fingers about to let them dry.
    Nearly a half hour later she exited the ladies’ room. At first she didn’t see her follower; but then beyond the initial crowd, his face emerged. He stood poking about a magazine kiosk, half-heartedly flipping through a copy of Newsweek with eyes searching in her direction.  
    Shit. She knew her way around this airport pretty well and knew ground transportation was close. She walked quickly, sweating in her wool coat.
    Finally, she reached the doors to the outside and a slap of warm air hit her in the face. A row of taxis awaited and she jumped into the nearest one, locking her door and forcing herself to look in the direction from which she’d come only to see the man following her. He’d pushed through the doors and was now scanning the line of cabs. Then he saw her and made eye contact. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Framed by the cab window, he sprinted toward her, rage on his face.
    Before she could scream, the taxi spun its tires and took off, thrusting her hard against the back seat.
    “Where are you going?” The driver was American. Young, about twenty -five, with brown hair. Too dark to see his eye color or the whole of his face in the mirror.
    The man who had been following her had been waiting at the airport for her arrival, so he probably knew which hotel she had booked as well.  “I was going to the Marriot on Ocean Drive in South Beach but I think I’d better go somewhere else. You’ll think I’m crazy but there was a man following me.”
    “You’re not crazy. He was packing and ready to attack. That’s why I took off so fast.”
    “Packing?”
    “A gun. He was reaching for it. I’ve seen his kind down here more times than I can count. I know what to look for.”
    “So I’m not paranoid.”
    “No ma’am. What’d you do to make this guy come after you?”
    “Nothing. I’m not like that. Not into anything illegal or illicit.”
    “Well, you’ve upset someone. You a journalist or something? Digging where you shouldn’t be?”
    “No, I—Why would you ask that?”
    “I talk to a lot of people on this job. Folks who want to tell me all about what they’re into. All manner of things. But people being chased by guys like the one after you—it’s always one of three reasons: You owe somebody money for something, drugs, girls, gambling, whatever; or you’re ready to go state’s evidence on someone and need to be stopped; or you’re a reporter or maybe even a PI and sniffing around where ya shouldn’t. So which one are you?”
    Which one am I? I am sniffing where I shouldn’t and someone wants to interfere with my plans. Means I’m on a trail.
    Hope outweighed fear. She was on the path of getting her daughter back and someone wanted her stopped before that happened. That had to be what this meant. She confessed to the cabbie. “Guess I fall into the third category.”
    “Okay, then I have just the place to take you. They won’t think to seek you out there, and unless it’s law enforcement that’s after you—”
    “It’s not.”
    “Good. Then they won’t be able to tap into any hotel or credit card records and find you.”
    Gloria managed to relax for the rest of the ride. She let the driver do the talking. He rattled on about the weather and politics, the state