“Evidence about me?” Tara’s voice cracked—more like a wail, panicked and sharp, slicing through the sour, smoky night like glass.
Camille flinched. Her heart—God, it was slamming. Like someone was punching her chest from the inside. Her palms slipped off Ellie’s shoulders, slick with sweat and grime. The alley stank—spoiled meat, jasmine, motor oil—and they were crouched behind this stupid dumpster like rats, hiding, breathing in rot.
The lawyer’s briefcase lay busted open near the curb, silver latches glinting under that busted-a*s streetlight, papers flapping like broken wings. Sirens wailed louder now, painting the world in violent flashes—red, blue, red again. Camille’s throat was tight. Burning. Her brain? Loud. Screaming.
Evidence? About Tara? David? Oh God, I'm in this deep. I’m
