A groan.

Coming from the alley behind Mr. Lopez’s hardware store.

She paused. Tasha had rules about alleys: don’t go in them, don’t talk to people in them, and definitely don’t make eye contact with anyone inside them.

But this wasn’t the usual noise. It was low, pained.

Curious, she tiptoed toward the corner and peeked in.

That’s when she saw the man.

Crumpled against a dumpster, one leg bent strangely beneath him, was an older gentleman in a navy-blue suit. His white shirt was splashed with what looked like blood, and his hand trembled as he reached toward something invisible.

His eyes locked on hers.