No dog tags.
No ID chain.
But there was a tattoo behind his ear.
Tiny.
Almost healed.
A black matchstick.
My stomach tightened.
Not Cinder.
Cinder’s people.
New mark.
New network.
The front window flashed red and blue as a patrol car swung into the lot.
Too fast.
Too soon.
No siren.
I stood.
“Maddox.”
He looked up.
“Police are already here.”
He understood immediately.
Nobody had called yet.
The patrol car stopped outside.
Two officers got out.
Both male.
Both in local uniforms.
Both with hands resting too close to their weapons.
The bartender, shaking, said, “Thank God.”
I said, “Nobody open that door.”
The bartender stared at me.
“What?”
The first officer knocked on the glass.
Three times.
Calm.
Hard.
Mason whispered, “Harper, they’re cops.”
I watched the officer on the left scan the room.
He saw the man down.
Saw me.
Smiled.
Not relief.
Recognition.
