(Kayla, 1987)
The sensation of being watched had been almost constant on this journey, and now I was feeling it again. I tried to ignore it, to concentrate on the paperback I was reading, but my efforts were useless. I lifted my eyes from the page and looked toward Fred, three rows up, expecting to see him staring at me again. He was asleep. How he could manage it over the loud drone of the plane's propellers, I'll never know. How Fred Coury could sleep at all after what he had done to my marriage with tom--but I suppose that's one of the advantages of being utterly without a conscience.
So if Fred wasn't the one eyeing me, who was?
I glanced around the cabin. Most of the men--even those who were not psycho--were sleeping. Two middle aged men in suits were awake, but not looking at me. The men seated behind them napped. I turned to look behind me. Eric was looking out the window. Jeff sat across the aisle, reading. There, sitting next to him, was the starer.
Robin wasn't staring so much as studying, I decided. No hostility there.
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