Terry tinkers with his espresso machine. “If only she saw it like that.”
“I feel you,” Nelle says. “My mom ...”
Terry flicks down his rag and wipes the counter. “Yeah?”
“Well, I never had a mom.”
He sad whistles. “I’m sorry.”
“And my dad ...” Nelle realizes she has no right words to describe the man who raised her. “He’s pretty awful.”
“Same here,” Terry says. “Yelled at me every day till I was thirteen.”
“What happened?”
He cocks his head. “Well, he hit me. Then he left. Think my ma kicked him out. Never saw him again. What happened with you and your da?”
Nelle laughs and scratches her throat. Where to start? “I guess ... well, I have a laundry list of grievances against him.”
“His most recent offense?”
“He shot me.”
“Oh.” Terry stops wiping. “Oh shit, wow.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine. We’re not, but ... we never really were.” The fragmented words spill out. Five months ago, she blazed out of Lincolnas fast as possible, raced through weeks and weeks of pure high, and now she’s crashing.
Nelle is so lost in her head, she doesn’t hear the café door open. Doesn’t notice Terry sweep away to welcome the new customers. They chat for a moment, their voices garbled.
Then one voice cuts above the rest, and her instincts kick in.
Shrink, cower, obey.
Her eyes beeline to Quill, sitting beside Penelope under a soft hanging lamp. Until this moment, Nelle was still holding out hope that her dream was just a dream. She whirls back to the bar before they see her face.
Terry circles back, fiddling with the espresso machine. “You’ll never guess who just walked in.Wallace Quill.Why’d you kids say he died? I told everyone I know the bad news.”
She squeezes the edge of the countertop for support. The last time she saw Quill was in the dark of the cottage, slinging that pistol like a maniac. Seeing his profile now, under soft lighting—sharp jawline, strong nose, graying hair—is like seeing a panther in a swimming pool.
Nelle isn’t naive. That bullet was never intended for her. It was James whom Quill had been set on murdering, and if she hadn’t jumped in the way, he would have succeeded. James wouldn’t be a forsaken lover, but a dead one.
Nelle can’t die, and she is more powerful than ever.
But Penelope can. And in the dream, she was crying out for help.
“What’s the matter?” Terry asks.
Nelle sips her latte to buy herself a moment to think. Then, decision made, she says, “The man in the corner booth is my father. Wallace Quill. When we told you about the obituary ...we...” James flashes before her with every blink.
“Wallace is yourdad?” Terry whispers. “Heshot you?”
“An espresso,” Nelle says. “I need another espresso.”
Terry crafts the perfect shot of espresso, and she knocks it back. She shakes her head at the bitterness and the shock of energy. Witha newfangled bravery, brought on by sheer anger at seeinghisface again, she charges between high-top tables until she is standing before their booth.
Penelope and Quill both look up.
“You were asking for me?” she says.
