The whole situation was ridiculous. Robyn Peltier might be older than Adele, but she was light-years behind in world experience. A sheltered upper-middle-class girl, recently moved to L.A., didn't know the city, probably never set foot in an alley for fear of stepping in something icky. Now she gets shot in the shoulder and what does she do? Fights back and runs. Field dresses the wound in a bathroom.

Stores were closing now. Restaurants would follow. All that running would start taking its toll and Robyn would begin to grow tired, to wear down, and then...

Adele smiled.

ROBYN

Running about like a chicken with its head cut off. That's what Robyn had been doing since Adele shot the bike officer.

She'd had a few patches of lucidity. Holding a newspaper to hide the blood, she'd bought a shirt and first-aid supplies, then she'd found a bathroom to change and fix up her shoulder. She'd also bought a cell phone using most of her remaining money. She'd intended to use it to get help. But she hadn't turned the phone on yet, much less made a call.

Every time Robyn got her head on straight, Adele would pop up, like an ax-wielding killer in one of those movies she hated. Now she was living her own version. How did the woman keep finding her? In the bathroom Robyn had even removed and shaken all her clothing, looking for a transmitter.

She'd given up trying to lose Adele, and her game plan now was to stay in populated places while she figured out what to do. But her exhausted brain couldn't contemplate any one-step long-term strategy.

She kept hoping Adele would give up. Go home, get some sleep, try again the next day... giving Robyn a chance to rest and regroup. Yet Adele was as tireless and relentless as any of those cinematic monsters.

As the stores closed and streets emptied, Robyn knew she had to find a place to sit and get her wits back. A club or movie was guaranteed to be full of people, but dark, too, and Adele wouldn't hesitate to shoot her there.

She hailed yet another cab.

"Where to?" the driver asked as she climbed in.

She wanted to say "any place that's busy," but she had enough experience with cab drivers thinking she was nuts.

"I'm in L.A. on business," she said. "I'm looking for something fun, but not a club. Something outdoors would be great." She thought of the street festival earlier. "Maybe a festival?"

She braced for a gruff brush-off, but the cabbie smiled. "You like carnivals? There's a spring fair over in Wilshire Park. A couple of schools are putting it on as a fund-raiser. My girls were talking about heading over there tonight."

A spring fair. Lots of lights. Lots of people. "Perfect."

Robyn stood a dozen feet from the admission booth, where two teen girls chatted and giggled. Beyond the temporary fence there was a midway. Even before she'd gotten out of the car she'd heard it – the shrieks of fake fear, the shouts of the barkers, the boom of music over blown speakers.

She bought a pay-one-price bracelet, then stepped inside. Fairs could never be too loud, too cheesy or too garish for Robyn. One time, for their anniversary, Damon had found this tiny –

Okay, enough of that. This was no time for skipping down memory lane. She had to stop running like that decapitated fowl and act like a woman with her head fully attached.

So she got cotton candy, telling herself it was necessary cover for playing a happy fairgoer – and, if held in front of her face, excellent cover for a fugitive. Then she staked out the perfect place to sit – a bench backed against a refreshment trailer. At one end sat a woman her age, holding a sleeping toddler. And, for the first time in months, Robyn could look at that and not feel a pang of loss.

There, surrounded by lights and people, yet obscured by shadow and cotton candy, Robyn finally relaxed a little.

She scoured the path for the now familiar head of dark blond hair.

Are you out there, Adele? Go ahead, pop out and say "boo." Bobby's not going anywhere.

She plucked off a tuft of spun sugar, let it melt in her mouth, then turned on her cell phone and dialed.

"Hope? It's Robyn."

"Oh thank God. Are you all right?"

The words rushed out on a sigh that stabbed Robyn with guilt. She should have called sooner. And what? Told Hope she was being pursued by a crazy girl with a gun?

"I'm fine," Robyn said, which was, for the moment, true.

"Where are you? What's that noise?"

"I'm safe. I'm just having some trouble turning myself in."

"I totally understand that. I don't think I'd have the guts to even try to do it without support – moral and legal. So here's what we'll do – "

"That's not it. I – " Two kids went by, screaming about wanting to ride the Avalanche before leaving. Robyn waited for them to pass.

"Rob? Are you still there? What's that racket?"

"Busy place. I do want to turn myself in. I tried. I can't. It's the girl from the photograph. Adele Morrissey."

"Adele? How'd you – ?"

"I know her. She used to take pictures of Portia. She's a papa razzo."

"What?"

"A paparazzo. And a fucking psychopath, apparently."

The woman beside her looked over sharply. Even Hope had gone silent in shock at her language. Robyn mouthed an apology to the woman and inched down the bench, lowering her voice.

"She was at the police station."

"Adele? From the photo?"

"Right. She intercepted me. She wanted my cell phone. She had a gun, so I ran. She chased me. I grabbed another cab, went to another police station and she was there, waiting for me on the steps. She got there before I did."

"Okay, so – "

"I can't lose her, Hope. No matter what I do, where I go, she finds me. Finally, I found a police officer – a bike patrolman. She – she shot him." The air seemed to thin at the memory and Robyn had to inhale and exhale to catch her breath before continuing. "She shot him from behind. Killed him. I got a bullet through my shoulder."

"She shot you?"

"I'm fine. But she's still following me, and the minute I give her a chance, she's going to kill me, for a cell phone I don't even have."

"Okay, then, we aren't going to give her that chance, are we?" Hope's voice was calm.