Lena's POV
The café was exactly what I expected.
Small. Unremarkable. The kind of place that existed in the gap between neighborhoods, serving people who needed somewhere to sit rather than somewhere to be seen. Plastic chairs. Laminate tables. A counter with a glass case of pastries that nobody was buying. The smell of burnt coffee and something fried drifting from the kitchen at the back, hanging in the air like it had been there for years and had stopped trying to leave.
Seven months ago Margaret Norman would not have walked through this door.
She would have looked at it from a car window and kept driving.
I walked through it like I owned it.
She was already there.
Seated at a table near the window, which told me she'd arrived early, which told me she was nervous, which told me e
