Chapter 1

"You okay over there?" Jenna, the afternoon shift manager, called from the register. Her voice carried that careful, honeyed tone people used when they were trying not to spook a stray dog.

"Peachy," Shane said, and the word came out sharper than she intended. She forced a smile that felt like a crack in dry earth. "Just tired. Late night."

Late night. That was one word for it. The truth was a scattered collection of hours spent staring at the ceiling of her studio apartment, her skin crawling with the familiar itch that no amount of coffee could scratch. The small, silver-foil-wrapped bundle at the bottom of her locker had called to her since she'd clocked in. She'd ignored it. So far.

Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She didn't need to check it. It would be Sarah again—third message this week, each one starting the same way: "Hey, just thinking about you. Want to grab coffee? No pressure." No pressure. As if the word 'coffee' didn't carry the weight of a thousand unspoken questions. Shane had deleted the first two messages without replying. The third sat unread, a glowing accusation.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Two more hours until her shift ended. Two more hours of fake smiles and the metallic tang of caffeine on her tongue. Two more hours until she could lock herself in her apartment and decide whether to open that foil bundle or flush it down the toilet. The decision had been made and unmade a dozen times today already.

The bell above the door chimed, and Shane's head snapped up. A woman in a nurse's scrubs walked in, her kind eyes scanning the room before landing on the counter. For a moment, Shane's heart lurched—Sarah worked at the county hospital, and she'd shown up here before, trying to catch her off guard. But this woman was a stranger, her badge reading "Pediatrics." Shane let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Can I get a latte to go?" the woman asked, and Shane nodded, grateful for the routine. Her hands moved on autopilot: tamp the grounds, lock the portafilter, press the button. The machine roared to life, drowning out the noise in her head. For a few seconds, there was only the smell of fresh espresso and the hum of steam.

Then her phone buzzed again. And again. Two messages in a row.

She poured the milk, trying to ignore it, but the vibration felt like it was burrowing into her skin. When she handed the latte to the nurse, her fingers brushed the cup, and she realized she'd forgotten to put a lid on it. The nurse gave her a puzzled look.

"Sorry," Shane said, grabbing a lid with shaking hands. "Long day."

"It's okay," the nurse said softly. "Take your time."

Take your time. That was what people said when they saw something they didn't want to name. Shane's jaw tightened. She snapped the lid on and handed over the cup, not meeting the woman's eyes.

The next hour crawled by. Every sound—the hiss of steam, the clatter of cups, the murmur of customers—felt amplified, like someone had turned up the volume on the world. Shane's skin prickled with sweat beneath her uniform. She kept checking the clock, counting down the minutes until she could escape.

At five minutes to closing, Jenna touched her arm. "Hey, you can head out early if you want. I've got this."

Shane wanted to say no, to prove she could finish her shift like a normal person. But the word 'yes' was already forming on her lips. "Thanks. I'll just grab my stuff."

She walked to the back room on legs that felt hollow. The locker door swung open with a creak, and there it was—the foil bundle, nestled between a crumpled apron and a spare pair of shoes. She picked it up, feeling its weight in her palm. Small. Shiny. A promise and a poison rolled into one.

Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out, finally looking at the screen. Three messages from Sarah, the last one reading: "I'm outside. Please just talk to me. For five minutes."

Shane's breath caught. She peeked through the small window in the back door. There, leaning against a beat-up sedan, was her sister. Sarah's arms were crossed, her face pale with worry, but she was here. Waiting.

Shane's hand tightened around the foil bundle. She could slip out the front, disappear before Sarah noticed. Or she could walk out that back door and face the music. The choice sat in her palm, cold and sharp.

She shoved the bundle into her pocket and pushed open the back door.

"Shane," Sarah said, her voice cracking with relief. "I was so worried. You haven't returned any of my calls."

"I've been busy," Shane said, and the lie tasted like ash.

Sarah stepped closer, her eyes scanning Shane's face. "You look exhausted. Are you... are you okay?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with everything they both knew but refused to say. Shane could feel the foil bundle pressing against her thigh, a secret that burned.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm not that person anymore."

"Then why won't you let me in?" Sarah asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Shane didn't have an answer. The foil bundle in her pocket felt heavier than it should, and the urge to run—to find a dark corner and forget this conversation—pulled at her like a tide. But Sarah's hand reached out, fingers brushing her sleeve, and for a moment, Shane almost believed she could let go.

Then her phone buzzed again. She glanced down. A notification from her dealer: "Got a new batch. Same place. Tonight."

Sarah saw it too. Her face crumpled.

"Shane..."

"I have to go," Shane said, and she turned and walked away, the foil bundle a steady weight in her pocket, the text a glowing promise in her hand. Behind her, Sarah called her name, but the sound was swallowed by the rush of blood in Shane's ears.

She didn't look back.