Eyebrows raised, chin tucked in, Derek eyes Stiles like he would a yapping, floofy dog, torn between annoyance and amusement. Right up until Stiles says murderer and it all comes rushing back: the hospital, the bus driver, the confrontation at the gas station.

His car.

(Murderer)

He stares hard at Stiles, remembers the woman's gun.

Flatly, "Scott's out. Looking for me."

Shit.

Wrenching himself sideways, Derek takes off with more speed and agility than is strictly natural.