Chapter 3
Chapter three
Eden
“Ghosts on the Pavement”
The stain was still there.
It had rained twice since the shooting, but the blood hadn’t washed away.
The color had faded from crimson to a dark purple smear, diluted but stubborn, like the pavement itself was trying to forget.
I wasn’t over it either. I stopped and looked at it every day, and I clutched my keys between my fingers, just in case.
The police officer that had come to my apartment hadn’t followed up with me like he said he would, despite the fact that I knew exactly what the shooter and the man he’d killed looked like.
It made me question if I really was overreacting.
I knew what I saw, and now the pavement reminded me that yes, this happened.
The corner felt quieter now, like the street had swallowed the noise that came before and was still deciding what to do with the memory.
Working through its own trauma, I guess.
Some part of me wanted to stop looking, but I kept giving it a quick glance each day, like checking an old wound to see if it scarred over yet.
I unlocked the front door of the cafe and stepped into the familiar aroma of beans and cinnamon. I took a deep inhale, taking comfort in it. I told myself that, someday, this place would really be my sanctuary. It was still hard to believe it was mine.
“Well, that makes me feel so… grounded.” I shot a glance at my silent audience of cups and the sleeping cat on the counter. “Get it? Grounded? Like coffee grounds?”
Tough crowd.
I took my time preparing: the lights, the espresso machine, the front display case that had one cracked corner I kept meaning to replace.
I bought it damaged for the discount, telling myself I could fix the crack for half of the money I saved buying it in that condition…
but it was always a task for another day.
Traffic in the cafe had slowed already. People had flocked in during the first few days, and now they hesitated outside the door but kept moving like they didn’t have time. I didn’t blame them, but I didn’t have the energy to fix it either.
See, I was never good at the business side of things.
Never good at self-promotion or selling a vibe.
I just wanted to make something warm for people.
A cup of peace, something small and sweet in the middle of their chaos.
I took my time making their orders, I wasn’t going to be known for quick service.
The world was just too fast for me already.
I had all of these big ideas and all of the motivation to do them, all the love to pour into them, but I just couldn’t equate it to money.
Money sucked the soul right out of it anytime I tried to put it on a financial sheet.
I had my regulars already though. The older woman, from the bookstore next door, who always ordered chamomile. The construction guy, with tattoos on his knuckles, who drank his coffee black and hot and left generous tips he pretended were exact change.
And then there was Jay, a seventeen-year-old who came in begging for a job. I didn’t have the money, but hired him anyway as a part-time barista. He showed up late but stayed late too, and he always remembered people’s names. He had quickly become my partner in crime.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
I had noticed a car since the shooting, one that I first brushed off as a coincidence. It started showing up on day three. I noticed it first in the reflection of the café window: black, sleek, unmoving, parked across the street like it was waiting for something or someone.
The first time, I just noticed it because it sat there for so long.
The second time, I told myself it was just a coincidence.
By the fourth day, I couldn’t tell if it was always the same car or if it just felt the same. Like a shadow with wheels. I never saw anyone get out, never saw the engine start or the brake lights flare. It was just… there.
I didn’t call anyone about it. What would I even say? “There’s a car. It might be following me. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Can you send someone anyway?”
I wasn’t sure if that sounded paranoid or just pathetic, and after my terrible experience trying to report an actual homicide, I no longer had much faith in the police department in this city.
I did think about starting to lock the café door during the slow hours and leaving the front lights on after close. I never followed through with those little safety measures, but they did cross my mind.
I worked my way through what was left of the morning crowd.
Jay showed up around ten and flashed a sheepish grin, but I didn’t scold him.
I just handed him a clean towel and turned the music on louder.
He was only here two days a week, and I did appreciate the company.
He seemed like a good kid, and he had so much heart.
As far as I was concerned, that was all we needed here at Ginger I must have forgotten to do it this morning with so much on my mind. I picked up the chalk and wrote: You’re still here. That counts for something.
I didn’t know who I meant it for. Customers, me, maybe both.
I wiped my hands on my apron and glanced out the window to see that the suspicious car was gone.
“Hey, Jay?”
“Yes, Miss Black?”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
His head popped up from behind the bar.
“It’s an old silver Honda. My older sister’s car.”
“Have you noticed a black car parking across the street some days?”
“Not really, but people street park a lot here to carpool up town, since there’s no meters.”
That made so much sense. I let out a sigh of relief and rounded the bar to help him finish organizing the syrups.
We’d removed them and wiped down the shelf because the caramel had started leaking and now there was a threat of ants.
I was already dealing with ants, and I’d been open for less than a month.
“I’m going to prop the door open,” I said when we’d finished, “let some fresh air in, and maybe it’ll feel more inviting?”
“That’s a good idea,” he agreed, juggling wadded-up paper.
I took my broom with me, sweeping the street in front of the door, humming to myself like I always did while enjoying a mundane task. Then I heard the engine of a vehicle as it approached and slowed. I stood up straighter, pulling the broom against me as I turned.
That black car was on the road, barely rolling by. The windows were down and two men in suits and sunglasses were inside. The one in the passenger seat had his arm hanging lazily out the window. He chewed gum open mouthed, teeth glistening with white gems.
“Morning,” he said, grin peeling back even more.
“Good morning,” I responded, voice shaking. The way they watched me was predatory.
“This your place?”
“Yes.”
Behind them, another car approached, honking its horn impatiently. I jumped at the sound, so wound up in suspicion and fear that I hadn’t noticed it. The driver of the black car rolled down his window to shout expletives and wave his arm in the air.
“Have a nice day, Eden. Stay safe,” he said, and then the driver gunned it down the road.
My heart stuttered, and I dropped the broom, the wooden handle clattering against the sidewalk.
They were driving the black car that had been parking across the street.
It was no coincidence, and they knew my name.
I had no doubt that the encounter had everything to do with the murder I had witnessed in the alleyway.