“Get down!”
The cop’s voice cracked through the air like a slap—too loud, too close—just as Camille yanked Ellie down from the booth. Her chest felt like it’d explode, her heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. The kitchen door was still swinging. Knife guy—gone. Just gone. But that woman’s scream—“He’s my husband!”—still rang, jagged and high, like a nail dragging through Camille’s skull.
She bolted. Sneakers slipping, lungs burning. Ellie’s hand—hot and slick—tight in hers, barely hanging on. The California air outside hit like a punch—exhaust fumes, fried oil, and that choking jasmine again. Fake flowers and lies, that’s what it smelled like. Streetlights blinked above them, flickering like broken promises. Camille’s eyes stung. She couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t think.
