I was on a date with a man I’d met only a week earlier. Dinner had gone smoothly—he was charming, funny, and seemed like a gentleman. Then the bill came.
The waitress looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Sir, your card was declined.”
He froze, his face pale. He muttered something about fixing it later, grabbed his coat, and hurried us out. I thought it was odd, but didn’t question it.
Just as I was about to step outside, the waitress grabbed my wrist. Her nails dug into my skin as she whispered, “I lied.”
Before I could react, she shoved the receipt into my palm. I unfolded it under the streetlight, my stomach twisting. Scrawled across it in frantic handwriting were two words:
“HE KILLS.”
I looked up, my date smiling at me from the curb, waving me over to his car. My hands shook, my heart raced, and in that moment I realized—I had to decide whether to get into that car… or run for my life.
