It was cold. I felt no pulse. A chill crawled up my spine.
“What should we do?” Liz whispered, her eyes wide with horror.
“We’ll pay for everything but leave the money on the table,” I said quietly, as I got up. “Leave everything.”
She got up, too, and we figured out the cost of coffee, plus tax and tip. The waitress saw us standing from several tables away. I pointed to the cash on the table and she nodded acknowledgement. Then Liz and I hurried back outside.
“Jack?” Liz whispered, clinging to my arm. “Aren’t they going to think we did something to her?”
“She looks so frail, I doubt it. I just don’t want to hassle with the police.” I sounded more certain than I felt.
This was the logical time to tell her that I was a fugitive from a minimum security prison. It might have sounded rom
