DEMETRIA

I looked back just as I heard the voice calling out to Marion. Oh, perfect! The same two women I’d run into at the grocery store, and again at the club. Paula’s so-called friends. Trouble in designer heels.

“Marion Whitfield,” one of them crooned, the blonde. Her lips curved into a sly smile. The other with ginger hair, clutched a Dior bag like a trophy, eyes flicking to me and narrowing just slightly.

“Ladies,” Marion said smoothly, voice calm, detached, as if he were ...