As his knees weakened, he lowered himself to the floor in a slow, shaky slide. That awful room. All that personal information so neat, so cold, all typed up like some kind of dossier. And those photos. Some ofthem taken through his windows.
His eyes widened. The windows!
Scuttling across the floor, he worked his way to the front wall. With a quick jerk, he pulled down the blind. Huddled on the floor beneath the window, he wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked back andforth, trying to stop long-buried feelings from clawing their way to the surface. This wasn’t the same. Just because he was running. And hiding. And being hunted. It still wasn’t the same.