Michael
The café off one of Portland’s side streets was small, almost eerily quiet. I picked a table near the back, close enough to the door to see people coming in but far enough to make it hard for them to see me. Sarah Mitchell agreed to meet me here, but she made it clear in her message that she was terrified. For a moment, I didn’t even recognize her. Her hair was shorter, her eyes kept constantly moving, and her figure... She walked in, her eyes searching over the patrons. I nodded to her reluctantly. She hesitated and made her way over.
She swallowed nervously. “Michael.”
“Thank you for meeting me,” I said, and she sat down, her hands gripping the edge of her purse, “I almost didn’t come,” Sarah answered before I even had a chance to ask her my first question, “I shouldn’t
