Deven thanked the woman and followed the direction, passing a set of bathrooms before crossing into the adjacent coffee shop. The whir of a blender bellowed, releasing an even stronger smell of coffee grinds and chocolate throughout the room. A male barista with a dusty crop of brown hair and an apron with the name Sam embroidered across the front, lifted a hand in greeting as Deven looked around at the sparse patrons. Where was she?

“Can I get you something?” Sam asked as Deven walked up to the pastry display case.

“Yes. Did a woman with braids come through here?”

“Yeah, just walked out,” he said nodding to the frosted glass door.

Deven thanked him and hurried out. Damn, she was quick. If she didn’t know any better, the woman was trying to—

“Bitch what the fuck are you doing following me?”

Startled, Deven tumbled backwards into another sidewalk sign. Sure enough, Erika was waiting just outside the door, eyebrows pointed downward to disappear behind those oversized frames. Even through the tinted shades, Deven could see her eyes narrowed in a menacing glower. She took a step towards her and Deven threw up her hand in panic.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” her words were coming out in a jumbled mess. “I wasn’t trying to follow you. I thought you could help me. I’m looking for Erika Garrett.”

Erika lifted her chin, her jaw tightening. “Don’t know her,” she snapped. “Now get the hell away from me.” She was lying. That much was clear.

Deven’s voice was pleading. “Erika, I need to talk about my sister, Kennedy. Keith said you would know her.” The shades were too dark so Deven couldn’t tell if Erika reacted to the comments. Nor did she give any outward display that the names meant something.

“I don’t know,” she said, this time, not quite as sinister.

“Keith said you—”

“I don’t give a fuck what Keith told you,” Erika snapped. “That girl emancipated herself and left when she was sixteen after her dad got in trouble again. Last time we saw her, she was cracked out somewhere in front of a homeless shelter. How the hell should I know where she is?”

It wasn’t just the words that had Deven disintegrating, but also the malice with which she spoke them. Pure and utter hatred reverberated through each syllable. Emancipated at 16? Cracked out? Homeless shelter? She couldn’t tell if Erika was spewing her poison just for animosity’s sake or if there was really some truth to any of it. Did Kennedy used to have a drug problem before she turned her life around? Kennedy was doing well for herself. Erika’s interpretation couldn’t be accurate.

“Erika, please,” she tried again. “I think my sister is in danger.”

To her surprise, Erika’s head snapped back and she let out a cackle. “Danger? Little girl, your sister is dead.”