Chapter 1: Betty
The lock on the bar's back door stuck like it always did, and I had to jiggle the key twice before it finally gave. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the damn thing.
Get it together, Betty.
But my body wasn't listening. It hadn't been listening since this morning, when that black SUV had slammed into my bumper on the highway and sent my car careening toward the median. I could still feel the jolt of impact rattling through my bones. I could still hear the screech of metal, the blare of horns, my own voice screaming as I'd white-knuckled the steering wheel and somehow kept from spinning into oncoming traffic.
The cops said it was probably road rage. Just some asshole having a bad day, they'd said, their eyes bored, their pens barely moving across their notepads.
I knew better.
And so did they.
I shoved the door open and stepped into the narrow alley behind the bar, my keys clutched between my fingers like some kind of pathetic weapon. The dumpster reeked of stale beer and rotting fruit, and the summer heat made the smell thick enough to taste. A stray cat skittered out from behind a pile of broken pallets, and I flinched so hard I nearly dropped my keys.
Jesus. A cat. I was jumping at cats now.
I scanned the alley anyway, my pulse hammering in my throat. The shadows seemed darker tonight, the silence heavier. But there was nothing. No one lurking in the corners. No black SUV idling at the mouth of the alley with its headlights off.
Just me and my paranoia.
I locked the door behind me and made my way toward my car, parked under the one working streetlight. My baby, a beat-up Honda Civic with a fresh dent in the bumper and a new crack spidering across the windshield, looked like it had survived a war zone. Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth anymore.
This was the fifth incident. Five in three weeks, each one worse than the last.
First, the text message.You saw something you shouldn't have. Keep your mouth shut.
I'd deleted it immediately and told myself it was a prank. Some drunk idiot who'd gotten the wrong number. Nothing to worry about.
Then my bar's front windows were smashed in the middle of the night, the word SNITCH spray-painted across the door in dripping red letters. I'd scrubbed it off myself at four in themorning, refusing to let any of my employees see it, refusing to let anyone know how badly my hands were shaking.
The car that followed me home for three nights straight was next. A dark sedan with tinted windows, always keeping exactly two car lengths behind me, never getting closer, never falling back. I'd finally driven straight to the police station one night, my heart slamming against my ribs, and filed a report with an officer who looked at me like I was wasting his time.
Fat lot of good that did. I knew they wouldn't help me. Not after what I'd witnessed. Not when I was the one trying to put two of their own behind bars.
The break-in was when I'd finally started sleeping with a baseball bat next to my bed. I'd come home to find my apartment destroyed. Drawers dumped, cushions slashed, my clothes scattered across the floor like someone had taken their time going through every piece. But nothing was stolen. That was the point. It wasn't about taking something.
It was a message.We can get to you whenever we want.
And now this. Someone had tried to run me off the road in broad daylight. Tried to make it look like an accident. Tried to kill me.
All because I'd been stupid enough to witness two cops shoot an unarmed man in this very alley four weeks ago. Because I'd been brave enough, or maybe just dumb enough, to call 911 and report it. Because I'd given a statement and refused to back down when they'd asked if I was sure, really sure, about what I'd seen.
I was sure.
And now I was paying for it.
I slid into the Civic and locked the doors immediately, my breath coming in shallow bursts. The engine coughed to life on the second try, and I pulled out of the alley, checking my mirrors every few seconds.
No headlights behind me. No dark sedan. No SUV.
But that didn't mean they weren't watching.
I made it home in fifteen minutes, taking a route I'd never used before, doubling back twice just to be safe. My apartment building loomed ahead, a tired three-story walkup in a neighborhood that had seen better days. I parked at the curb and sat there for a full minute, my hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to convince myself to get out of the car.
My phone buzzed in the cupholder, and I grabbed it so fast I nearly threw it across the car.
Layla's name flashed on the screen.
