I kissed him because the bullet was already looking for his face.
That was the only explanation my body understood before my mind caught up.
Rain slid down the windows of The Blue Lantern, turning King Street into a blur of headlights, umbrellas, and Friday-night laughter. Inside, the bar smelled of lemon peel, wet wool, and spilled whiskey. I was carrying three cocktails on a tray, wearing a black apron and the name June stitched over my heart, when the antique mirror behind the bar showed me something that did not belong.
A rifle barrel.
Fourth floor of the empty tailoring shop across the street.
Angled toward the private dining room of the hotel next door.
My fingers tightened around the tray. The three glasses rang against one another, bright and delicate, like warning bells.
For seven years, I had trained myself not to react to danger. Danger belonged to my old life. To a house that burned before dawn. To coded phone calls that stopped whenever I entered the room. To my father teaching me, at thirteen, how to count exits in a restaurant before I counted chairs.
“People announce what they want before they say a word,” he used to tell me. “Watch hands. Watch doors. Watch glass. Glass remembers angles.”
I had spent years hating him for lessons like that.
Then the mirror saved a stranger’s life.
Across the street, through the rain-streaked window of the Waverly Hotel’s private dining room, a man sat near the glass. He wore a dark blue suit and no tie. Two security men stood near the walls, trying and failing to look like ordinary guests. Across from him sat a silver-haired woman with pearls at her throat, her posture too perfect to be relaxed.
The man by the window was Elias Voss.
Everyone in Charleston knew the name. Shipping heir. Philanthropist. Suspect in everything the newspapers hinted at but never proved. He gave money to museums, spoke softly at charity galas, and owned half the warehouses along the river through shell companies with polished brass plaques. Detectives watched him. Politicians called him. People lowered their voices when he entered a room.
And someone had decided to end him before dessert.
The rifle adjusted.
A clean line.
No panic. No warning. No time for police.
“June?” Tessa called from the service station. “Table seven wants another round.”
I set the tray down on the bar.
“Cover it.”
She turned. Tessa had known me three years and trusted my silences more than most people’s explanations. Her smile vanished when she saw my face.
“What did you see?”
“Trouble.”
I was moving before she could ask more.
The cold hit me outside like a slap. Rain soaked through my blouse, flattening it against my skin. A taxi hissed past, throwing gutter water over my shoes. I crossed King Street between headlights, one hand raised against traffic, my eyes fixed not on Elias Voss but on the dark rectangle four floors up.
The tailoring shop had been empty for months. The faded gold letters on the window still promised custom suits and same-week alterations. Tonight, above the locked front door, one window was open just enough for a barrel.
The Waverly doorman stepped in front of me under the awning.
“Miss, the private dining room
