My knees buckled slightly. I clutched the edge of the bed. Flipping the card over, hoping to find some kind of clue, I realized it was the same café card.
Where had it come from? And who needed help?
I stared at the card in my hand, my heart thudding wildly, as if it could leap out of my chest and read it for me. The red ink screamed from the page: HELP. A phone number. LIE.
My fingers tightened around the card. Who had written this? Why was it in my back pocket? Whoever it was, they weren't just asking; they were begging—desperate, maybe even dying.
Should I go back to the café? Maybe someone saw something. But what if they gave me that corporate smile and told me they'd look into it, but never did? What if I was the only one meant to see this, to act?
The police? I shook my head. I'
