change.

‘And your solution,’ he said, ‘was to sell them my table and write a waitress into the cleanup.’

Callahan started crying.

It wasn’t remorse.

Chloe knew the difference.

It was the crying of a man whose plan had failed.

‘I never told them to kill her,’ he said.

Sofia stepped closer and tapped the laminated card with one red nail.

‘Then explain her section written in your handwriting,’ she said.

Chloe looked down.

She hadn’t noticed before.

But now that Sofia said it, she saw it.

Table numbers written the same way Callahan marked specials on the nightly board.

The hard slant on the fours.

The hooked tail on the sevens.

Her blood went cold all over again.

Callahan saw recognition hit her face and knew he was finished.

He sagged against Leo’s grip.

Sirens wailed louder outside.

Blue light washed across the prep kitchen windows.

Everything sped up after that.

Sofia copied the dining room cameras before the responding officers could seize the system.

Leo photographed every shell casing, every bullet strike, every broken glass.

Chloe gave her statement twice—once to Sofia, once to a Boston police detective with tired eyes who clearly understood he had just walked into something much uglier than an attempted restaurant shooting.

The gunman went out on a stretcher with one wrist splinted and two officers beside him.

Before they wheeled him away, he twisted far enough to look at Chloe again.

‘Romano won’t stop at one miss,’ he said.

An officer shoved his head back onto the gurney, but the damage was done.

Chloe’s knees almost gave out.

Dominic caught that too.

He waited until the detective moved off to talk to Callahan, then led Chloe into the office and shut the door.

Suddenly the room was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator behind the bar records cabinet.

‘Sit,’ he said.

She didn’t want to sit.

Sitting felt like admitting she couldn’t hold herself upright.

But she sat.

Dominic remained standing.

Blood from the shooter’s arm had dried on one cuff.

He looked at it like it belonged to someone else.

‘Do you have family in the city?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Anyone expecting you home?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone who knows your schedule besides the restaurant?’

That question made her think of the collection notices on her microwave, the voicemail scripts, the automated reminders with her full name and address.

Shame rose hot in her throat.

‘My landlord,’ she said.

‘Debt collectors.

That’s about it.’

As if summoned by the word, her tote bag slipped from the chair beside her.

The zipper had split during the chaos.

A stack of envelopes spilled onto the office floor.

Past due.

Final notice.

Collections department.

Dominic looked down.

He didn’t comment immediately.

That, somehow, was worse than pity.

Chloe bent to snatch them up, but Sofia reached the office first and gathered the papers with efficient hands.

Her eyes flicked over one balance, then another.

‘Medical debt,’ she said quietly.

Chloe stared at the floor.

‘My mother died,’ she said.

‘The bills didn’t.’

No one filled the silence with fake sympathy.

Chloe appreciated that more than she could explain.

Dominic took the envelopes from Sofia and read the top page.

The number printed there was enough to make most people flinch.

He didn’t.

‘How