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3. Rational Thoughts

There's not a doubt in my mind. He would have killed me.

I don't know how he found me when I got on that bus, and if I'm being honest, I don't want to know. But it's not going to happen again. That was just pure luck on his part and a fluke accident on mine. I was clearly being too predictable.

I continue walking until I reach the nearest town. I use to come here to get groceries and anything else I happened to need while staying in that house. Now, I walk to the nearest bus stop and take a seat.

I'll get a ride to a rental car agency and then from there take a train to where ever. I only really use airplanes when I feel I don't have any other choice. I don't particularly relish in having to go through security. It's not as if I'm ever carrying something I shouldn't be, I just don't feel comfortable with it at all. Plus, sometimes I do carry things that most definitely are not allowed on planes.

***

I stare out the window at the passing scenery as the train moves quickly to reach its next stop. It's scheduled to make six stops, and I haven't decided which one I'll be departing on. Though, it's not like I don't have the time to make the decision. The stops are spaced out every few hours.

I get as comfortable as possible in my seat and then rifle through my backpack for my phone. I pull up the internet and see a small article listed about the fire, but it's not that big a deal since there were no bodies found, nobody hurt, and completely contained to the house. Apparently, they're still investigating how the fire got started in the first place.

My phone suddenly starts ringing in my hand, and a number I don't recognize flashes across the screen. Most likely one of those spam calls, so I let it go to the robotic voicemail set up.

My phone rings again after a moment, same number. I frown at the phone and tap the little green button, allowing me to answer it. I put it up to my ear.

"Start counting down."

I freeze up at the tone of voice on the other end. The voice is distorted and robotic and yet so full of venom. It's impossible to tell who's on the other end.

"What?" I finally manage to ask, my voice cracking slightly.

"Surprised? You should have known it wouldn't take us long to catch up with you."

I feel my mouth go dry, but I steady my voice. "Well, it's taken you over four years so far."

Silence. It's quiet for a full minute and I debate hanging up, thinking they've already ended the call.

"You're good with numbers Nicolette. So, tell me, what do think the probability is of you making it out of this alive?"

Practically non-existent. But they don't need to know that.

"Considering I have virtually an endless supply of money at my disposal, I'd say very high."

Silence. And then, "We caught up with you once. We'll do it again."

The call ends and I'm left staring at the phone in my now shaking hands. I take a few deep breaths and tilt my head back, trying to calm myself down so I can think rationally about what I'm going to do next.

For a split second, I'm worried they know exactly where I am. That they've tracked my phone. But as the fog on my mind begins to clear I remember that there's no possible way for them to track my phone . . . but I was also under the impression there was no possible way for them to get my number either.

I hold the phone out at arm's length away from me, held up in between my thumb and pointer finger like it's got some disease and only the most marginal of contact with it will prevent me from catching the disease.