“Worth a try.”
Darlene steps beside me and lowers her voice. “Close early.”
I look toward the front windows. Rain. Neon. Empty sidewalk. A dead transit shelter. The dark shape of the street beyond.
“I will,” I say.
Darlene blinks. “Well, hell. I was ready for a fight.”
“I’m tired.”
“You admitting that makes me think you’re dying.”
“I’m not dying. I’m evolving.”
“Into what?”
“A woman who goes upstairs before the city drops another brick on her head.”
I start boxing the remaining pastries for tomorrow’s discount tray. My ribs still ache when I turn too sharply, and my cheek throbs if I smile too wide. The last week has been a lot. Too much, maybe. I keep thinking of Kauss’s warning and the way his gaze stayed on the street as if danger has a scent he can separate from rain.
At eight thirty-seven, the bell over the door rings.
The young couple looks up. Mrs. Pell turns in her chair. Darlene goes still beside the register.
Five men enter first.
They are not subtle. Subtlety would be wasted on them. Purple-black jackets, skull-bloom patches, cheap chains, boots wet from the street, hands loose in that artificial way men use when they want everyone to know they might reach for weapons. Behind them comes a sixth man who needs no announcement.
Ron Sanchez walks into Sweet Tooth like he owns the floor beneath his boots.
He is handsome in a polished, dangerous way, with a purple mohawk styled high despite the rain, piercings glittering along both ears and one eyebrow, tattoos curling up his throat and disappearing beneath the collar of a black synthleather jacket. He is well built for a human, shoulders broad, arms thick, waist trim, and he moves like he knows people are watching. His smile is white and easy. His eyes are flat as dead glass.
The room changes around him.
Mrs. Pell’s teacup rattles softly against its saucer. Mr. Eddison starts to rise, then freezes when one of the gang members looks his way. The young woman at the middle table clutches her partner’s sleeve. Darlene’s hand slides beneath the register, where we keep an old shock baton that works about half the time and probably only on people who feel guilty.
I step forward before she can grab it.
“Evening,” I say, because if terror has manners, maybe I can pretend mine are real. “Kitchen’s closed, but I can box something up.”
Ron smiles wider. “Evie, right?”
“That depends on who’s asking.”
“Oh, come on. Everybody knows Evie.” He turns in a slow circle, arms spreading as if he is addressing an audience. “Halo’s sweetheart. Feeds the hungry, fixes everybody’s problems, smiles through the rain. It’s inspirational.”
“Great. Buy a muffin.”
One of his boys laughs, and Ron’s gaze flicks toward him. The laughter dies.
Ron steps closer to the counter. “I’m not here for muffins.”
“Shame. They’re excellent.”
“I’m here because there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Darlene mutters, “Those breed when idiots talk.”
