“Abby—” I started.
“Bathroom,” she said urgently. “Now.”
The panic in her voice wasn’t normal.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was survival.
So we moved fast.
She pulled me into the women’s restroom and stopped again at the door like she couldn’t breathe.
“Come with me,” she begged.
“It’s okay,” I tried.
“No. Together.”
So we went into one stall.
Together.
Two bodies, one cramped space, my shopping bags pressed against my knees, her hands shaking in mine.
Then the shoes came.
And the voice came.
And the blue dress became proof we were being tracked.
You already know what happened next, because that’s where this story started.
But here’s what happened after.
We got out.
We ran.
We showed security.
We found Hartman.
And then we went to the police station.
At the station, the fluorescent lights made everything look worse.
Even my own hands.
My nails were jagged from stress. There was a faint smear of Abby’s milkshake on one knuckle.
The normal messes of a day that had suddenly become evidence.
Abby sat beside me, quiet, holding my sleeve like it was the only stable thing in the room.
Hartman sat across the hallway, still calm, still polished, like this was an appointment and not a crime.
He crossed one leg over the other.
He checked his watch once.
Like he had somewhere else to be.
Mike showed up before we were even done giving our statement.
His face was pale.
He rushed to Abby first, crouching to her level.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
