“He’s got a knife!”
The scream tore through the diner like glass through flesh—sharp, sudden, real. Camille’s body jerked, her heart slamming so hard she thought it might c***k open right there in her chest. Her palms slipped on Ellie’s tiny shoulders, sticky with sweat, and the kid—God, she was shaking—tucked in her lap like a shivering heartbeat.
The unicorn drawing—“Mommy Camille”—was crushed under her elbow now, forgotten. That stupid paper, those stupid red letters. What the hell was she even doing here?
The lights overhead blinked, buzzing like angry bees, casting shadows that looked like monsters crawling up the walls. Plates clattered. Chairs scraped. Somewhere behind them, Tara’s perfume hit the air—too sweet, too strong—and it mixed with something foul. Sweat, burnt grease, fe
