The worst thing about a public disaster was how quickly strangers decided who deserved the blood.
Miranda was still speaking through the phone when the first camera flash hit the bar window.
A white burst cut through the rain-dark glass, followed by another, then three more in quick succession. Men near the entrance turned toward the sudden light. Someone lifted a phone. Someone else called my name from outside.
“Cade!” Miranda snapped through the speaker. “Are you listening to me?”
I looked across the bar as Vaughn’s smile widened.
Of course he had known, I thought.
Maybe he had arranged it. Maybe the man beside the broken jukebox had been recording since I walked through the door. Maybe every stranger in the room had been selected, paid or simply lucky enough to witness another Ha
