The envelope on the counter wasn’t just paper; it was a death sentence.
I stared at it, the fluorescent lights of the diner humming that low, electric buzz that usually comforted me, but tonight, it sounded like a flatline. Outside, the wind screamed against the glass, a living, angry thing clawing to get in. Highway 70 was disappearing, swallowed whole by the kind of whiteout snowstorm that turned the Colorado mountains into a graveyard. But the cold seeping into my bones didn’t come from the storm. It came from the letter.
Final Notice.
Two words. Seven days. That was all the time Mr. Sterling gave me before he came to take everything.
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