Love Me to Death

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She left WCF and stepped into the still, chilly air. She loved walking and didn’t even mind the cold that much—though she still missed sunny, temperate So-Cal. She pulled her scarf up to cover her ears and neck and walked briskly toward the Metro.

A chill brought goose-bumps to her arms, like fingernails on a chalkboard. She told herself it was the cold, but she knew better—the feeling of being watched was far too familiar. She faked a cough and stepped to the side so she could discreetly observe the people walking around her, the traffic on the street, the dinner crowd eating in the restaurant on the other side. A man passed her, nodded a greeting, and kept walking.

She sighed, frustrated with herself for being paranoid. For six years she’d never been able to shake the sensation that people were looking at her, that they knew what had happened and somehow blamed her for her fate. The sensations had faded over time, but Lucy doubted they would ever disappear completely.

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