Page 13 of Wrecked By Rev

“You sure about that?”

I don’t answer. I’m not sure about anything anymore.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting spam or a parts order confirmation.

It’s Angel.

Someone smashed my window. The café. Can you come?

I’m off the stool and moving before I finish reading.

“Rev?” Rogue calls after me. “What’s?—”

“Gotta go.”

I don’t explain. I just leave.

The café looks wrong in the dark.

I’ve gotten used to seeing it in daylight—warm and busy, full of people and noise and the smell of coffee. Now it’s quiet and empty, and there’s a gaping hole where the front window used to be. Glass everywhere. Shattered across the sidewalk, glittering under the streetlights like ice.

Angel is standing outside with a cop. Her arms are crossed over her chest, shoulders hunched. She looks small. She never looks small.

I park the bike and walk over. She sees me coming and something in her face shifts. Relief, maybe. Or just the comfort of not being alone.

“Rev.” Her voice is steady, but I can hear the cracks underneath. “Thanks for coming.”

“What happened?”

“Someone threw a rock through the window. Sometime after midnight, according to the neighbor who called it in.” She gestures at the damage. “I got here about an hour ago.”

The cop—young guy, bored expression—glances at me, clocks the cut, and decides I’m not worth the hassle.

“We’ll file a report,” he says to Angel. “But without witnesses or security footage, there’s not much we can do.”

“I know who did it.”

“Ma’am, unless you have proof?—”

“I’ve been telling you for four months. I’ve filed reports. I’ve given you his name, his address, his vehicle description. And every time, you tell me there’s nothing you can do.”

The cop shifts uncomfortably. “I understand your frustration?—”

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re going to file another useless piece of paper and driveaway, and tomorrow he’s going to do something else, and we’re going to have this exact same conversation.”

Her voice is rising. I step closer, not quite touching her, just letting her feel that I’m there.

“Angel.”

She looks at me. Takes a breath. The anger is still there, but she banks it.

“Fine,” she says to the cop. “File your report.”

He does. It takes ten minutes of paperwork and meaningless questions, and then he’s gone, and it’s just us standing in front of the shattered window.

“I’m going to board it up tonight,” she says. “I’ve got plywood in the back from when I redid the storage room. It’ll hold until I can get a glazier out.”

“I’ll help.”