Mr. SCARPA
Scarpa who was standing at the door, staring at me intently.
Shid. My heart. It was beating so fast.
“Ms. Montana. You’re here,” he said, like he’d found something he’d been looking for. His eyes didn’t blink—just stared, bold and jade and unreadable.
What was he doing here?
I froze behind the counter. He looked nothing like the suited man from the office or the mourning husband from before then. He didn't wear any fabric that was black—just a cream polo, ripped jeans, and… slippers?
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