There’s blood on one corner.
Not much.
Enough.
My hand closes around it.
For a second, all I see is her hand in mine last night.
Small cuts.
Fresh blood.
Her trying to act like it didn’t hurt.
Her mouth saying she could handle herself while her eyes begged the world to stop taking pieces.
I told her to stay in the booth.
She did.
That’s the part that hits hardest.
She listened.
To me.
And I still lost her.
My grip tightens around the phone until the cracked screen bites into my palm.
The café door opens behind me.
I turn fast.
The waitress stands there, one hand pressed to her chest, face white.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought they were helping her.”
I force the gun back down from where my hand wants to go.
Not her fault.
Not her target.
“Did you see the other girl leave?”
“The blonde?”
“Brianna.”
She nods fast. “She went with them. I think. I don’t know.”
My pulse goes colder.
“What did she look like?”
The waitress swallows. “Okay, I guess.”
