Page 12 of Veil of Smoke

I breathe once and drive my knee up into his groin.

He folds with a curse, grabbing at his side. I shove him toward the stacked buckets near the hydrangeas. They crash to the floor, metal clanging and rolling across the tile.

He crashes into the counter, gasping, staggering to stay upright. Blood trails from his sleeve, dripping onto the floor.

“You fucking—”

He doesn’t finish. He stumbles toward the door. Fumbles with the handle, slams it open.

Rain blasts in as he disappears into the street.

I run and throw the lock. Twist it hard. My fingers shake.

The shop is dead quiet now except for the music still humming in the background.

I turn and press my back to the door.

My heart is a drum in my ears.

There’s blood on the floor. On my apron. On the towel I used to wipe my hands earlier. I blink and realize I still have the shears in my hand.

I set them down.

Step back.

The floor is a mess—flowers, water, blood. The buckets are still rocking. My nerves are, too.

I stare at the trail of red. At the print of his boot smeared on the floor. I can smell metal and cold sweat.

I breathe again, finally.

The first breath hurts. The second one’s worse.

I grab a rag, dampen it, kneel and wipe the blood without thinking. One swipe. Two. My hands don’t feel like mine.

This place used to be safe.

Now I’m mopping up blood with a towel that still smells like rosemary and floral wrap.

I get back on my heels.

I didn’t freeze.

I fought him off.

But it wasn’t just random. He said Red Thorn. Same words on that slip. Same words that brought me to that dock.

He came for me.

Not the shop. Not a robbery.

Me.

I push to my feet and stumble into the back room. My phone is on the back shelf. I grab it. Stare at the screen.

Call the cops?

What do I even say?

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