My gut drops.
I kill the engine, swing off, and stare at the lifeless window. Something’swrong.
Then I look at the waffle truck next door.
Of course she’s open. That woman could serve breakfast during a damn nuclear winter.
She clocks me coming and her face shifts. First concern. Then a look that says she already knows what I’m about to ask.
“Morning,” she says. “It’s Doris, in case you forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.”
I did.
“Where is she?”
Doris wipes her hands on a towel. “Didn’t open.”
“I see that.”
“She shut down early yesterday. No warning. No goodbye. Looked fine one second, then looked sick. Closed up and left.”
Left.
My jaw locks.
“Ava doesn’t leave without a word.”
Doris’s eyes sharpen. “So youdoknow her name.”
“I know enough.”
She studies me for a beat, then leans in a little. “She looked scared.”
That word lands wrong in my chest.
“Do you know where she lives?”
Doris shakes her head. “Rented room. Cheap building. She didn’t say more.”
Not enough.
I pull my phone and call Ghost.
Ghost keeps records. Names. Numbers. Dirt.
If anyone can find her, it’s him.
He answers on the second ring. “What?”
“I need an address.”
A pause. “Whose?”
“Ava Holland.”
Another pause. “The coffee truck girl?”
