Page 6 of Saving Sophia

Could I seriously walk back in there?

Callie was still in there.

A dead body was in there.

“What’s your occasion, dearie?” A short woman with Kool-Aid red hair smiled up at me. I closed my eyes in frustration. I never got customer service this attentive. Maybe I should run from a killer every time I needed to go shopping.

I needed to decide what to do, or I’d end up buying a living room rug and a prom dress.

Except I couldn’t buy anything, couldn’t do anything, without my bag.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered and pushed past the red-haired woman.

Two blocks from the club, I stopped. No one seemed to be following me. Could I really go back in there? The employee locker room was near the kitchen, in the back on the first level. I wouldn’t even have to walk out on the main floor at all if I used the back entrance. Scoot in, grab my stuff, scoot out. If anyone tried to talk to me, I could say I had food poisoning and needed to go home. This could work.

One more block. My heart jackhammered behind my ribcage. My mouth was dry like old paint. The plucky heroine always made it through the scary situation in my favorite romance novels, right? But what if I wasn’t the heroine? What if I was some expendable side character like … cocktail waitress number two?

I arrived at the back entrance. My knees shook, and those darn sandals felt like they weighed two hundred pounds each on my feet, but everything looked normal. I visualized the path through the dark hall to the locker room where the dancers changed costumes and did their makeup.

My locker was fourth from the last on the right. The combo was 43-18-8. I could do this.

Get in, grab my bag, get out.

Should I talk to Callie?

No, she wasn’t in any danger. Killing that man seemed personal. Private. Mr. Roscoe wasn’t going to shoot up his own club. If I talked to her, then she would be involved too, making her a target.

My hand rested on the tarnished doorknob of the back door.

I turned it, cracking the door open.

I walked in.

The familiar heavy bass matched my heartbeat. There was no screaming. Nothing indicating a murder recently happened here.

I snuck down the hallway.

Could I have misunderstood? Doubt began to creep in. What exactly had I seen?

The gun, smoking. The dead guy slumped over in a dark puddle. Mr. Roscoe, staring at me. A loose end.

Come here.

What could I have possibly misunderstood?

I made it to the fourth locker. Crouched down. My trembling fingers turned the combination dial. 43-18-8. The lock clicked open like a helpful little friend.

I grabbed my bag. No one was around. Two minutes and I’d be back out on the street.

I walked back down the dark hallway.

The doorknob felt cool in my grasp.

Holy cow, I’d done it.

Plucky heroine, that was me.

I opened the door, breathing in the warm, slightly smoggy L.A. air.

---