I press my face to the glass like a kid outside a candy store.
The chyron reads:“FOUR DEAD IN LAUNDROMAT SHOOTING.”
My blood turns to ice.
There’s Dave’s photo. The reporter’s voice is muffled through the glass, but I can make out enough words to piece together the story.
”…David Thornton, 42, regional manager at Brightside National Bank, was among four victims found dead this morning at a central Las Vegas laundromat. Police are calling it a robbery gone wrong, though sources say the other three victims may have ties to organized crime…”
Four victims.
Dave and the three men who came to kill us.
No mention of survivors.
No mention of me.
It’s like I was never there.
The reporter continues: “Thornton leaves behind a wife and two children. Police say there are no witnesses to the shooting…”
My knees give out.
I slide down the diner window until I’m sitting on the sidewalk, staring at nothing.
No witnesses.
Because officially, I don’t exist.
I’m a ghost in my own life.
“Hey, you okay?”
I look up. A waitress from the diner is standing over me, holding a glass of water. Middle-aged, kind eyes, the sort of person who probably has three jobs and still finds time to worry about strangers.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You don’t look fine, honey. You want me to call someone?”
Call someone. Yeah. Who would that be exactly?
“The police,” I hear myself say. “Can you call the police?”
She studies my face, taking in the bruises, the too-big clothes, the general disaster of my existence.
“Course I can. You stay right here.”
Twenty minutes later, a patrol car pulls up.
The officer who gets out looks professional. Clean uniform, kind face, the sort of cop you’d want your daughter to call if she was in trouble.
“Ma’am? I’m Officer Rodriguez. I understand you need some help?”
I nod, suddenly unable to speak.
He helps me into the back of the patrol car; not the cage part, the regular seat. Turns the air conditioning up high and hands me a bottle of water.
“Take your time,” he says. “Just tell me what happened.”
