“She’s a liability,” Matteo continued, “and you’re a professional.”
“You want her alive?”
That made him pause. Not long, but just enough to reveal the answer.
“No. Just want it clean. Make it look like an accident, a mistake, whatever.”
I was relieved that this was a terminal contract. At least it would be quick for her. I folded the photo and slid it into my jacket.
“Time frame?”
“I’ll give you two weeks, but I’ll pay you more if you get it done sooner. I want this out of my hair. After that, if you can’t getthe job done, I’ll send someone with less finesse and shallower pockets.”
He turned, heading for the SUV, but looked back before the door shut. “Pretty girl, huh? Shame.”
The car drove off. I didn’t move until it was out of sight, and then I took out the photo again. I’d conditioned myself not to see faces among the collateral. They all blurred together after a while. This girl, though – Eden – gave off the kind of warmth you’d expect from someone who baked cookies for strangers. That made it worse, somehow.
I shook away those thoughts and tucked the paper into my pocket once more.
Eden Black. Civilian. Coffee shop owner. Witness. Target.
Soon to be dead.
Chapter three
Eden
“Ghosts on the Pavement”
Thestainwasstillthere.
It had rained twice since the shooting, but the blood hadn’t washed away. The color had faded from crimson to a dark purple smear, diluted but stubborn, like the pavement itself was trying to forget. I wasn’t over it either. I stopped and looked at it every day, and I clutched my keys between my fingers, just in case.
The police officer that had come to my apartment hadn’t followed up with me like he said he would, despite the fact that I knew exactly what the shooter and the man he’d killed looked like. It made me question if I really was overreacting. I knew what I saw, and now the pavement reminded me thatyes,this happened.
The corner felt quieter now, like the street had swallowed the noise that came before and was still deciding what to do with the memory. Working through its own trauma, I guess. Some part of me wanted to stop looking, but I kept giving it a quick glance each day, like checking an old wound to see if it scarred over yet.
I unlocked the front door of the cafe and stepped into the familiar aroma of beans and cinnamon. I took a deep inhale,taking comfort in it. I told myself that, someday, this place would really be my sanctuary. It was still hard to believe it was mine.
“Well, that makes me feel so… grounded.” I shot a glance at my silent audience of cups and the sleeping cat on the counter. “Get it? Grounded? Like coffee grounds?”
Tough crowd.
I took my time preparing: the lights, the espresso machine, the front display case that had one cracked corner I kept meaning to replace. I bought it damaged for the discount, telling myself I could fix the crack for half of the money I saved buying it in that condition… but it was always a task for another day.
Traffic in the cafe had slowed already. People had flocked in during the first few days, and now they hesitated outside the door but kept moving like they didn’t have time. I didn’t blame them, but I didn’t have the energy to fix it either.
See, I was never good at the business side of things. Never good at self-promotion or selling a vibe. I just wanted to make something warm for people. A cup of peace, something small and sweet in the middle of their chaos. I took my time making their orders, I wasn’t going to be known for quick service. The world was just too fast for me already. I had all of these big ideas and all of the motivation to do them, all the love to pour into them, but I just couldn’t equate it to money. Money sucked the soul right out of it anytime I tried to put it on a financial sheet.
I had my regulars already though. The older woman, from the bookstore next door, who always ordered chamomile. The construction guy, with tattoos on his knuckles, who drank his coffee black and hot and left generous tips he pretended were exact change.
And then there was Jay, a seventeen-year-old who came in begging for a job. I didn’t have the money, but hired him anyway as a part-time barista. He showed up late but stayed late too, andhe always remembered people’s names. He had quickly become my partner in crime.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
I had noticed a car since the shooting, one that I first brushed off as a coincidence. It started showing up on day three. I noticed it first in the reflection of the café window: black, sleek, unmoving, parked across the street like it was waiting for something or someone.
The first time, I just noticed it because it sat there for so long.
