She leans against the seat next to me. She isn’t weeping and crying the way she should be. The way most women would.
Without the adrenaline and the feel of her body against me as a distraction, anger rises up in my chest. “What the f**k are you involved in?”
She turns to me. “You think this was because of me?”
“No one targeting me would look in a shithole like this. I’m starting to think you could be lying to me about a whole lot more than your name.”
I have plenty of enemies, but none of them so desperate and sloppy that they’d shoot up a restaurant full of innocent civilians in the middle of the day. There’s a missing piece of the puzzle here.
“I lied about my name, but I’m not lying about this. No one is after me.”
She’s lying or she’s wrong. I don’t have time to figure out which
