For five hours, I was not a witness.

I was a waitress.

The relief lasted until I saw a photograph taped to the café’s back door.

It showed a woman leaving a gray apartment building in the rain, shoulders hunched beneath a borrowed coat.

Me.

Beneath the picture were four words, printed in block capitals: SHE IS STILL TALKING.

Malcolm found me standing there with the paper in my hands.

“Was this here when you came in?” I asked.