“Who the hell is she?” The woman’s voice sliced through the diner like a damn knife—sharp, loud, just wrong. Her purse swung at her hip like she was ready to clock someone. Camille’s whole chest caved in. Her heart slammed into her ribs, fast and stupid, and her palm slipped right off Ellie’s. Sweat. So much sweat. And she couldn’t breathe. Not properly.
The woman—red lipstick smeared like she didn’t care, tight-a*s ponytail, eyes that could gut a person—stared. First at Ellie. Then at Adrian. Then at Camille, like she was something that needed to be scraped off her shoe.
The diner lights buzzed—too loud. Too much. One of them flickered like it was dying. Shadows jumped across the cracked linoleum floor, weird and jagged, like they were alive or something. Camille blinked. Her throat was
