Kam turns to face him as soon as his rear end hits the bar stool next to her. “Sorry about our mom.” She bursts.
“Trust me, I've seen worse.”
“You say that now, but in ten minutes when she barges in here with another opinion, you might change your mind.” She insists.
His chuckle is short and genuine, “that may be.”
I join them, standing on the opposite side of the bar. The morning is unusually chilly. I can feel a small draft coming in through the open window. Even the slightest breeze cuts right through me, freezing its way up my backbone.
Without hesitation I ask, “do you know anything new, or have any idea who is doing this?”
I don't care for the small talk, and I certainly don't want to waste any time. My best friend and a neighbor are dead. Who gives a rat's a*s about my mother
