Steph felt a fuzzy sort of cold settle onto her that morning, and spent the rest of the day detached, insulated. She observed herself, watched her greet Cardine, the hostess, saw her joke with the kitchen staff. Sometimes Steph would say something, and she wouldn’t recognize the sound of her own voice.
It might have been pleasant inside her head, if she could shake the memory. Of the hollow wreckage inside her, and the way the moon had played in his eyes.
She was fine until a customer said something rude, and then she found the murder in her heart.