Walking through the lobby with a stack of papers under my arm and a bulging purse is like a beacon of shame.
Or maybe it's just my face.
Either way, it's hard to keep heat from flushing my cheeks red and letting everyone know I'm affected by their stares.
I tap the "Confirm Ride" button on my phone, already anticipating the sweet relief of escaping this suffocating place. My gaze lifts from the screen, and I nearly collide with a figure blocking my path. My breath catches as recognition hits me like a punch to the gut.
Blonde hair. Fit body. All black attire. Red-rimmed eyes that bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
It's her.
Before I can even open my mouth to speak—not that I have a single clue what to say—she unleashes a primal scream that stops me cold.
"You killed him! You killed my mate!"
The stack of papers under my arm suddenly feels like lead weights, and my purse threatens to slip from my trembling fingers. I'm not even sure how to feel.
