The panting Gwen skidded to a halt on the concrete sidewalk. WTF was she doing? She moved her retainer around her mouth with her tongue.
The half-moon overhead slashed the sky like an executioner’s axe, slicing shadows in the oaks, and jabbing at her now bare feet. Her flapper dress shaded one red toenail and it took on a darker tinge. It reminded her of blood drizzling from a cut knee after misjudging a jump and popping her board.
Gwen dangled the stilettos from one hand and glanced over her shoulder.
All was freaky quiet. No pounding jackboots from an axe-wielding monster. No cries of pain or surprise. Even the warm breeze had ceased.
Mitch Obranovich did not raise a wimp.
Mitch Obranovich did not raise a wimp.Shortcutting the streets on the bike path behind the upscale houses, Gwen
