Page 22 of Shadow

Knife Girl bucked underneath her, screaming and fighting. Her nails scraped against tile.

Daphne applied more pressure, her knee grinding into the girl’s spine. “Stop moving. You’re making it worse.”

Gun Kid, under Morrison, started crying, the drugs wearing off. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—we just needed—I’m so sorry⁠—”

Morrison’s voice calmed, almost kind. “Stay still. Help’s coming. Just stay still and this will be over soon.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Millie stood behind the counter with both hands pressed to her mouth, shaking. “Thank you. Oh my stars. Thank you both.”

The truck driver was helping the elderly couple get out of the booth.

Daphne caught the driver’s eye and nodded toward the kitchen. “Get them out. Back door.”

He nodded.

The sirens got louder.

Daphne’s mind raced ahead. When police arrived, they’d want statements. Names. Identification. She needed to stay anonymous until the nine a.m. meeting—needed Morrison to not know who she was until she was ready.

The door burst open, and Renegade PD rushed in—two officers, one young and eager with his hand still on his weapon, the other older and seasoned with a calm that said he’d seen it all before.

Behind them, an ambulance arrived, a paramedic jumping out before the vehicle had fully stopped. Tall with dark hair and a strong build. He moved with purpose toward Morrison.

“Asher! Man, what happened?”

“Hey, Jackson. Robbery. We handled it.” Morrison stood as the younger officer took custody of Gun Kid. The kid was still sobbing.

The paramedic—his name tag said J. Stewart—moved straight to Morrison and grabbed his arm. “You’re bleeding. Let me see that.”

“It’s superficial.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Stewart pulled supplies from his kit—gauze, antiseptic—and started cleaning the wound. Blood turned the white gauze red. “You always gotta play hero?”

Morrison’s voice went quiet. “Seems to be a theme lately.”

The older officer approached Daphne while she maintained her position on Knife Girl. “Ma’am. You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You want to tell me what happened?”

She gave her statement in short, factual sentences. She’d been having breakfast. The two subjects entered armed. She responded to the threat. Both subjects neutralized.

The officer wrote notes in a battered notebook. “You’re trained.”

“Yes. Self-defense classes.”

Not a lie.

“Name?”

“Daphne.”

He looked up from his notebook. “Last name?”

And she just…well, she reached into her past. “Eliason.”