"It's coming down," Gwen muttered, shoving her umbrella into the wind and sprinting for the bus.
"Take the second shelter," a man called from the opposite curb. "You can't stand in the gutter."
Gwen ignored him and kept running. Her phone vibrated against her ribs. She glanced at the screen while juggling the umbrella and her tote.
Unknown: We know where you live.
Unknown: Post the photo if you don't cooperate.
Unknown: Everyone's looking, Gwen. Don't make this hard.
She shoved the phone into her palm and forced her legs faster.
"Bus!" someone shouted. The bus hissed to a stop. The shelter's plastic roof rattled. Rain hit skin in stinging curtains.
She reached the bench, heart loud in her ears. She lowered the umbrella and slid onto the seat as if she had always lived under bad weather.
Across the street, under a wide black umbrella, stood a man in a dark coat—tall, quiet, hands tucked into pockets. He watched the bus. He watched her.
"That's her," the man said without turning.
"Sir?" the younger man at his side adjusted his tie and squinted. "Who is that?"
"Wait," the man said. "Don't move."
Gwen felt the shelter shift. A car's lights cut through the rain and everyone ducked. She dropped the umbrella lower, flattening it against her shoulders. The ring on her left hand flashed once when she tensed.
"Is she—" the assistant began.
"Yes," the man said. "Don't
