“Family emergency.” I hang the apron on a hook.
“We’re in the middle of the dinner rush,” he snaps. “You can leave at eight.”
I head for my locker. “My sister needs me.”
He flushes red with anger beneath the sheen of sweat. “You walk out that door, don’t bother coming back.”
The threat is meant to stop me in my tracks.
It doesn’t even slow me down.
Backpack over my shoulder, the door swings shut behind me, cutting him off mid-curse. The alley behind the diner reeks of rotting food and cigarettes, the air cool after the stifling heat of the kitchen.
My feet hit the pavement at a run, carrying me toward the bus stop on instinct alone.
Eight minutes to the next bus. Twenty-twominutes to reach Brickwell if traffic is light. Thirty minutes total, minimum, before I can reach Lena.
My breath forms clouds in the autumn air as I arrive at the stop, scanning the faces of people waiting. No uniforms. No one watching me. Not yet.
The street hums with the sounds of a city in motion, but none of it registers past the pounding in my head.
They know.
The bus rounds the corner, diesel engine rumbling as it stops at the curb. My knees bounce with constrained energy as I count the seconds it takes for the doors to open, for the passengers to disembark, and for it to be my turn to climb the steps and deposit exact change into the meter.
At this time of night, it’s packed with people getting off work, and bodies crowd in from all sides as I grab a pole, knuckles white around the cold metal. The bus lurches forward, throwing me into a man in a business suit who grunts his displeasure. I don’t apologize.
My watch says five thirty. Lena would have been making herself dinner alone in the apartment when the police arrived.
How did they make it past the front door? Didshe let them in? Did they have a warrant? Does it even matter now?
The bus stops every few blocks, the hydraulic brakes hissing each time. I count the stops, calculating distance and time, willing the driver to move faster through the crawling traffic.
Four more stops.
The sweat on my back cools in the over-air-conditioned bus, raising goose bumps along my arms beneath my thin jacket, while bitter, metallic adrenaline coats my tongue.
Three more stops.
The woman beside me shifts, her perfume a cloying cloud of artificial flowers that rolls my empty stomach. Her shoulder bumps mine as the bus takes a corner too fast, and I fight the urge to push her away.
Two more stops.
My nails tap with impatience on my thigh, keeping time with the seconds ticking away in my head.
Did Lena remember what I told her about talking to the police? Not to answer questions without me present? To ask if she was being detained? To request a lawyer?
One more stop.
The brakes squeal as we pull to the curb, thedoors folding open with a mechanical wheeze. I push past bodies, ignoring muttered complaints, and hit the sidewalk at a run. The cool air fills my lungs as I sprint the remaining blocks to our building, backpack bouncing as I dodge pedestrians who don’t move out of my way fast enough.
The concrete steps to our building blur beneath my feet, my focus narrowed to a single goal. I need to reach Lena. The lobby door slams behind me, the sound echoing up the stairwell as I take the steps two at a time, not bothering to attempt the elevator that’s always broken.
By the fifth floor, my lungs burn, and my calves ache, but I don’t slow. The hallway stretches before me, identical doors on either side, with ours at the very end. As I approach, I notice the silence. No voices, no police radio chatter.
Maybe they’re gone. Maybe it was only routine questioning. Maybe?—
My hand closes around the doorknob, and it turns beneath my palm.
