The Day Silence Spoke novel Chapter 5

A figure leaned against the counter, a faint scent of perfume drifting in the air.

Latisha looked up. It was Nikita Stafford, the owner of the café.

Nikita was tall, nearly five-foot-ten, with short-cropped hair and a casual style of black t-shirts and cargo pants. Most people mistook her for a guy until she spoke. When Latisha had first come for the interview, Nikita had playfully pinched her cheek, scaring her half to death before she realized her boss was a woman.

Latisha put down the cloth and smiled faintly, her fingers moving. *I’m used to it.*

Nikita watched her hands, then glanced at her red-rimmed eyes. A frown creased her brow.

“I’m used to it.” Three simple words that held a world of pain and resignation.

She pushed a latte across the counter. “Your favorite, with extra foam. On the house. Everyone gets one today.”

Latisha signed her thanks and took a sip. A milk mustache formed on her upper lip. Nikita reached out and wiped it away with her thumb, then couldn’t resist pinching her cheek again. “You’re such a goose.”

Her voice was laced with a mix of fondness and pity. Latisha’s face was soft, with cherubic cheeks, big eyes, and long lashes. When she looked at you, she had the pleading, innocent look of a puppy. Nikita loved teasing her. At first, Latisha had been shy about it, but eventually, she’d gotten used to that, too.

Habit was a terrifying thing.

Nikita was a good person. She had even learned sign language from online videos just so she could understand Latisha. She could now follow most of what she said.

But Latisha was terrified of making friends. The last person she thought was her friend had just disinfected a car seat because she’d sat in it.

Nikita seemed to have an idea. “Hey, come upstairs. I need your help with something.”

Latisha quickly set down her latte and followed her up to a room tucked away on the second floor. When Nikita opened the door, it revealed a studio filled with colorful paintings. Besides running the café, Nikita was a painter—a “famous” one, by her own declaration. Her family disapproved of her artistic pursuits, so she’d opened the café as a front to paint in secret.

She looked around the café and saw Latisha already back at work, wiping down tables. “You,” she said, grabbing her arm. “You’re coming with me.”

Latisha quickly untied her apron and followed Nikita to the counter, grabbing several bags of coffee. Most of the deliveries were nearby and went quickly, but a few were further out. For those, Nikita needed her motorcycle.

“Latisha, hold these and get on behind me.” Nikita plopped a helmet on her head and pulled her toward the street. Latisha started to go back for an umbrella, but Nikita stopped her.

“You can’t hold an umbrella on a motorcycle,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

So Latisha clutched the coffee to her chest and shivered on the back of Nikita’s motorcycle as they sped through the storm. The rain was coming down in sheets, the sky a dark, angry gray. Though it was only midday, it felt like dusk.

When Nikita’s motorcycle pulled up in front of a sleek, modern skyscraper, Latisha’s heart sank.

This was Clifford’s company.