She wasn’t sure she was going to make it.
The split second she needed to gauge the footsteps – the leaps that would take her further from her pursuer and closer to an escape – that fraction of time might have made the difference.
Her pulse was throbbing in her ears. Could he hear it?
He would catch her again, this she knew.
She could hear his short, shallow breaths just feet away. He wasn’t watching. Not yet. But if she moved, if she made any effort to change her position, he’d be there in a flash.
She decided to go for it.
Uncrossing her legs, she leaned quickly to the left and sprinted up the stairs. Three, four, five steps to make it on the landing, then a quick juke to the left. Through the doorway – there it was! Freedom!
A door slam away.
She twirled around, grabbed the handle. Began to propel the door forward, but too late. Too late.
He was with her, grinning maniacally. He knew he’d beaten her, he knew she was caught.
As did she, so she sat down to pee, defeated, and handed the toddler a roll of toilet paper to unravel, resigned to her fate.