"I need to use the restroom," I whisper to Trenton, squeezing his hand before letting go.
He nods, his eyes still on Charlie, who's showing Carter how her new bear's vest matches his. I slip away from the table, weaving between Sydney and Kane, past my father who's deep in conversation with Greyson about something that's making them both laugh.
The hallway is quieter, the restaurant's soft music fading behind me as I push through the door to the ladies' room. I'm halfway through washing my hands when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I pull it out, expecting a text from Matthew asking where I've gone, but the name on the screen makes me pause.
Trixie.
Matthew's younger sister. The ER nurse who couldn't get her shift covered. She texted us this morning with a string of sad emojis and a promise to make it up to Charlie this weekend.
I open the message.
Back entrance. Let me in? Surprise! Couldn't miss this after all.
I frown at the screen. The back entrance? That doesn't make sense. She'd come through the front, the way everyone else did. And the tone feels off. Trixie texts in all caps and exclamation points, not these clipped, punctuation-perfect sentences.
But maybe she's parked in the back lot. Maybe she's got a gift that's too big to carry through the restaurant. Maybe I'm reading into things because the last month has trained me to see threats in every shadow.
I dry my hands and slip out of the bathroom, glancing toward our private room. Through the doorway, I can see the back of Trenton's head, then Matthew's profile as he leans down to hear what Charlie is saying. They're fine. They're safe. I'll just pop out and let Trixie in.
The back hallway is narrow and dimly lit, leading past the kitchen where the clatter of pans and the hiss of a grill fill the air. The exit door is at the end, marked with a glowing red sign. I push through it into the small concrete loading area behind the restaurant.
The air is cold and smells like fryer grease and wet asphalt. Two dumpsters sit against the brick wall, and beyond them, the parking lot where deliveries are made. A dark sedan is idling at the edge of the lot, its headlights off.
No Trixie.
I take a step forward, my hand going to my phone to text her back.
Where are you? I'm at the back door.
The sedan's trunk pops open.
Not a trunk. A hatchback. The back lifts smoothly, revealing the cargo area.
Trixie is lying inside.
She's on her side, her dark hair fanned across a blanket, one arm dangling over the edge. Her scrubs are rumpled, and there's a dark smudge on her cheek that might be mascara. She isn't moving.
"Trixie?" My voice comes out thin, barely audible over the idling engine. I take another step. "Trixie, are you…"
"Don't."
The voice comes from behind the open hatchback door. Low. Familiar. It sends a cold spike through my chest that has nothing to do with the November air.
Evan steps into view.
He's thinner than I remember from the photos. The beard is gone. His face is pale, almost gray, and there's a wildness in his eyes that the mug shot didn't capture. In his right hand, angled down but not holstered, is a gun. It's pointed at Trixie's still form in the back of the car.
My body goes rigid. Every nerve ending fires at once, and the world narrows to the small circle of concrete between the dumpsters and the car, to the distance between the back door of the restaurant and where I'm standing, to the fact that my phone is still in my hand and Evan's eyes have already found it.
"Drop it," he says.
The gun doesn't move. It stays trained on Trixie's unconscious body.
My fingers loosen. The phone hits the concrete with a crack that sounds obscenely loud in the quiet loading area.
"Inside the car," Evan says. His voice is steady. Controlled. The voice of a man who has rehearsed this. "Passenger seat. Now."
