Chapter 2
I did not think.
I moved.
David tried to push me farther back, but my heel caught on the chair leg and I stumbled sideways.
Tiffany’s knife cut through empty air where my shoulder had been.
A waiter slammed the chair between us.
David grabbed Tiffany’s wrist with both hands.
She screamed like he was hurting her, though he was only stopping her from hurting us.
“Let go of me!”
“Drop it,” he said.
“No!”
The knife clattered onto the table when the waiter struck her hand with a serving tray.
Silverware jumped.
Wine spilled.
Someone shouted that the police were coming.
Tiffany twisted, clawing at David’s face.
I grabbed the velvet box before it fell to the floor.
I do not know why.
Maybe because it was the last untouched piece of the night.
A memory she had not broken yet.
Two men from the next table helped David hold Tiffany until security rushed in.
She kept screaming my name.
Not David’s.
Mine.
“Claire stole my life!”
I stood shaking beside the wall, cheek throbbing, glass glittering near my shoes.
A woman offered me a napkin.
Another woman whispered, “Is she okay?”
I wanted to say yes.
I was not.
The police arrived within minutes.
Tiffany changed the second she saw uniforms.
Her voice softened.
Her face crumpled.
She became small.
“I just wanted to talk,” she sobbed. “They attacked me.”
David laughed once.
Cold and humorless.
“She pulled a knife in a restaurant.”
“She slapped me,” I said.
My voice surprised me.
It was steady.
One officer looked at my cheek.
Another picked up the knife with gloved hands.
The manager pointed toward the ceiling.
“We have cameras.”
Tiffany’s crying stopped.
For the first time that night, real fear crossed her face.
David held my hand while officers took statements.
He kept looking at me like I might disappear.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“You didn’t do this.”
“She followed us here.”
“You didn’t do this,” I repeated.
But part of me was angry.
Not at him.
At all the months we had tried to be reasonable.
We had changed numbers.
Changed routines.
Parked in different places.
Saved messages.
Filed reports.
Gotten the restraining order.
Still, Tiffany had found ways through every locked door of our peace.
When they led her out in handcuffs, she turned at the entrance.
Her lipstick was smeared.
Her eyes locked on mine.
“This isn’t over,” she said.
David stepped forward.
An officer stopped him.
I stared back at her.
For the first time, I did not look away.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “It is.”
But I was wrong.
Because as soon as the police car pulled away, David’s phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
He looked at the screen and went pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
He handed me the phone.
Unknown number.
One message.
You think Tiffany came alone?
Attached was a photo.
Me.
Sitting at the anniversary table.
May you like
Taken from inside the restaurant.
Before Tiffany ever walked in.
