Charlotte Sanguinite
Jazz guides me to one of the chairs. “I’ll get some water.”
She hurries to the fridge at the other end of the cafe, and I take the few seconds I get to try and breathe through the panic attack. My hands are no longer shaking when Jazz returns, and while my heart beat is unsteady, I’m beginning to calm down.
“Here.” She presses the cold bottle of water into my hands. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”
I take a few gulps, the cold liquid soothing.
Jazz waits for a moment before saying, “You said it was an attempted break-in, but you lied, didn’t you? You were attacked.”
I had a story cooked up about the bruise on my forehead and the gauze on my cheek, but I find myself nodding.
Jazz’s lips tighten, and I see anger in her eyes. “Did he put his hands on you? Why didn’t
