Page 79 of Runaways

Shit. Mason.

My pulse quickens as I try to recall our conversation from the night before. But surely, I didn't say anything too damning, right? I'd know if I did.

But wait, there was another thing.

The texts.

I drop the hair straightener, and it lands directly on my foot.

"Fuck!" I scream, jumping back. "Fucking damn it!"

That was my good foot, too.

I try to convince myself that I made it up—that somewhere between god drunk and sleep, I imagined I received those messages. But I pick up the phone with shaky hands, swiping to unlock it, and there it is.

Unknown: 2 Messages.

I'm in trouble, and I know it. I stuff the phone into the back pocket of my jeans, pull a flannel over my tank top, slip on my sneakers, and leave with the fries still in the microwave, locking the door behind me.

This time, when I walk around the front of the building, I promise myself that if someone else wants to get run over, I'll let them, no matter who they are.

"Hey," Zoey says when I step inside. "You look nicer today. You took my advice, didn't you?"

"What are you talking about, Zoey?" I ask as I head to the back to clock in.

"About getting caught out? And it's a good thing, too, because at this rate, it's probably going to happen again."

"At this rate? What's this rate? What does that mean?"

"A couple of reporters have called here for you," she says.

"What?" I can't breathe. "What did you tell them?"

"Jodie told them you didn't work here, and she doesn't know you; she told me to tell them the same thing. I don't really understand why, though. Do you want to tell me why?"

"I like my privacy," I tell her. "That's why I moved here—for privacy."

The phone rings as I breeze past her, tying my apron around my waist.

"Poplar Café," I say as I answer. "This is…Zoey."

Zoey crinkles her nose at me, nudging me with her shoulder as she passes.

"Hi, my name is Stephanie, and I'm with the Cascade Tribune. I was hoping to speak to…Lilah?"

Fuck."I don't know anyone by that name; I'm sorry."

"Oh…really? I must have the wrong information, then. Maybe you can help me, anyway. The redhead who saved that little girl yesterday—do you know how or where I could get ahold of her?"

"No, sorry," I lie. "We don't know who she is; she must have been passing through. Have a nice day."

"Table fourteen is up," Gabriel says, setting two plates of food in the window.

That's my section now, so I grab the plates but freeze before rounding the bar. Two men in dark clothing and gloves sit in that back corner booth, each wearing a mask. It makes me uneasy, and even though I didn't eat, I think I may vomit.

"Zoey…?"

"Yes?"

---