POV: Clara

The café smelled of burnt espresso and cinnamon syrup. The high-pitched whirring of the milk frother blanketed the gentle hum of morning murmurs. Clara clutched the rim of her cup, holding it like a shield, and relishing the heat in her palms. Sleep had not been kind. She’d tossed half the night, ears straining for the scrape of footsteps on the sidewalk, nerves frayed, body refusing to settle.

Jenny dumped into the seat across from her, her hair twisted into a ...