Chapter one
Eden
“No Witnesses”
Ithadbeenthelongest week of my life, and I guess that’s why I fell asleep on my own bartop. The varnished wood was cool against my cheek and, for a moment, I let myself drift somewhere between sleep and numbness. If my cat hadn’t come over to bat at my ponytail like it was a toy dangling just for him, I might have stayed there all night. I startled upright, blinking groggily as the orange blur skittered off the counter with a disgruntled chirp and vanished beneath a rack of bagged coffee beans.
“You’re right,” I murmured, yawning as I pushed myself up and stretched. “Home. Actual bed. Not a slab of wood I overpaid for.”
The shop was peaceful and still, but it still seemed to buzz with the energy left over from the day. Outside, dusk had already sunk its teeth into the sky, the last of the late winter light fading into the inky violet of evening. I switched off the house lights and stood in the soft spill of glow from the espresso machine as I tried not to think too hard about how tired I still was.
This little place had been my dream for years: Ginger & Black. Named for my ‘ginger’ cat, Regret, and my own last name. Kind of pathetic, I know. Every morning since I opened four days ago, I had been up before the sun to bake, brew, scrub, and then smile at everyone who walked through my doors. I wasn’t built for bold decisions. I’d always stayed in the lines: safe job, safe apartment, safe routines. I didn’t even jaywalk. But opening the shop was the one loud, defiant thing I’d done in my entire adult life. It scared the hell out of me.
It was everything I wanted.
It was also alotfor one person. At first I didn’t have the confidence to hire help, so I became a one-woman coffee circus. I was working in my sleep, which made the days feel even longer, but I really did love it. I was finally living the dream… and dreaming about the dream. Everything about this place – including owning it and running it – was outside my comfort zone. I used to make pros and cons lists just to change brands of laundry detergent. Now, I was out here pricing espresso machines and doing my own taxes like I knew how to adult.
After trying to coax Regret out from under the counter and into his carrier, I gave up, letting him camp in the cafe overnight. I hesitated like I always did when routines broke. Leaving him here made my stomach do a weird little flip. What if something happened? What if the building caught fire, or a raccoon got in, or the universe just decided to punish me for being irresponsible? I locked up, pulling the door tight until the latch clicked and double-checking it twice more just to be sure. The street was empty, except for a flickering streetlamp and the distant murmur of a bus turning a corner.
I usually took the long way home, along well-lit sidewalks and past a few corner shops with late hours, but tonight my feet ached and my bones felt hollow with exhaustion, so I turned into the alley a block down. It was narrower, darker, and not exactlyfriendly looking, but it shaved off ten minutes, and tonight I just needed to get home and faceplant into a pillow. Thank God I had decided to keep Ginger & Black closed on the weekends during the first couple of months of the soft launch.
Halfway down the alley, I heard voices. They were harsh and angry, yelling and… was one of them begging? I paused, barely breathing when I saw them. Two men stood near the far end, silhouettes backlit by a blinking neon sign. One wore a long coat, and the other had his hands raised. A car was backed in at the end of the alley, blocking my intended path. My eyes moved over the emblem of a leaping jaguar, the license plate number, and a ding on the right fender.
Then I burned the faces of the men into my brain. I didn’t mean to, but when I committed, Ireallycommitted.
“I didn’t say anything! Please,” stammered the man with his hands up.
The other didn’t speak, and he raised a gun. I didn’t mean to gasp, but I did. The sound was soft, barely audible.
The shooter turned sharply, and the gun lowered for a beat, then he raised it toward me. I had never before looked down the barrel of a gun. My heart stopped just long enough that my head started spinning, and my face felt cold. Then I sprang into flight, running down the sidewalk as fast as my legs would carry me.
I heard two gunshots and the gurgling wails that must have come from the other man in the alleyway. My stomach lurched, the sour bulge of bile on the back of my tongue. I pressed the back of my hand over my mouth, knees aching from the force of my feet slapping against the pavement.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I could hear him. Fast, heavy footfalls behind me. He screamed at me, telling me to stop, or he’d kill me, then resorting to saying he just wanted to talk. It felt like he was so close that he could touch me. I dartedacross the street without thinking, nearly stumbling as I hit uneven sidewalk.
He shouted something else, words I didn’t hear. I rounded the corner and ducked into a side yard, squeezing between a fence and a garage. The broken chainlink snagged my flesh underneath my shirt, but I didn’t stop until I was two blocks away and couldn’t hear him anymore.
I stopped, panting. My vision pulsed with panic and adrenaline. I put a shaking hand to my side, feeling blood ooze under the fabric.
“Shit,” I whispered, taking one last look back before sprinting the rest of the way to my apartment. When I finally reached it, I locked the door behind me and slumped to the floor, trembling.
I should have called someone immediately. I should have stayed calm.
Instead, I curled up next to the door and sobbed because it seemed like that was the logical response to witnessing a murder and almost getting shot, too. Twenty minutes passed before I could breathe right again. I rose on my shaking legs, entering the bathroom to clean up the cut on my side.
“Tetanus,” I muttered to myself. “Luckily, I’m up to date.”
Of course I was, because at least once a year, I stepped on a nail or cut my hand on something. It’s the little positives, the silver lining of being a klutz. I washed the wound with a cloth and then slathered it with nearly an entire tube of triple antibiotic. I slapped on a bandage and called it good.
Then it was time to call the police.
My voice was steady when I explained what I saw… sort of. I didn’t mention how close he’d come. I didn’t mention the man’s eyes when he turned and spotted me. They said they’d send someone out to my residence. I expected them to ask me to come down to the station but instead, another twenty minutes later, someone knocked on my door.
It was a young cop: tall, crisp uniform, serious face, looked like he was probably a lot of fun at parties (not). I should’ve written down his name and badge number – that’s what they always tell you to do when you’re faced with a police officer. I didn’t even think about it in the moment, though.
He smiled as I opened the door, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. I was a pretty good judge of character, I prided myself in knowing whether or not a person was trustworthy… and I didn’t trust this guy as far as I could throw him. I naturally distrusted anyone I was told Ishouldtrust.
“Miss… Eden Black?” he asked.
