DRINK SPIKED.
My blood ran completely cold. Suddenly, the slight dizziness I had been brushing off as first-date jitters—and a single glass of Pinot Noir—took on a terrifying new context.
I glanced toward the front of the restaurant. Mark was waiting by the exit, holding my coat. His smile, which had seemed so boyish and endearing just five minutes ago, now looked entirely calculated. Predatory.
“Ready to go, Sarah?” he called out, his voice perfectly smooth.
I swallowed hard, fighting a sudden, rising wave of nausea. I looked back at the waitress. She was busying herself wiping down our table, but her eyes kept darting toward me, wide and urgent. She subtly nodded toward the back of the restaurant where the restrooms—and the employee-only kitchen doors—were located.
“Actually, Mark,” I forced my voice to stay light, gripping the receipt so tightly my knuckles turned white. “I need to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room before we head out. Give me just a minute.”
His smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second. The charm slipped, revealing something cold and deeply impatient underneath. “We really should get going,” he said, taking a deliberate step toward me. “I parked in the garage down the street, and it closes at midnight.”
“It’ll just be a second,” I insisted, already backing away toward the hallway. I didn’t wait for his response. I turned and walked as fast as I could without breaking into an obvious run.
Once I pushed through the heavy wooden door of the restroom, I locked it behind me and leaned against the sink, gasping for air. My legs were beginning to feel like lead. Whatever he had given me was taking hold. I fumbled in my purse for my phone, my fingers clumsy and numb.
Before I could dial 911, a soft, frantic knock came from a side door I hadn’t noticed—a staff entrance connecting the restroom hallway directly to the kitchen.
“Open up, it’s Chloe. The waitress,” a hushed voice pleaded.
I unlocked it. She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bustling, brightly lit kitchen.
“I saw him drop a capsule into your wine when you turned to look at the dessert menu,” Chloe whispered rapidly, guiding me past bewildered line cooks toward the back alley door. “I didn’t know how to warn you without him noticing. I had to decline his card so I could deal with you directly and slip you the note. My manager is calling the police right now.”
“Thank you,” I slurred, the fluorescent lights beginning to blur and spin above me.
“Just stay with me,” she said, pushing open the heavy metal door into the cool, sharp night air.
We waited in the alley. Within minutes, flashing red and blue lights illuminated the brick walls. Two officers rounded the corner, and Chloe quickly explained the situation, telling them her manager was pulling the security footage.
As I sat on the bumper of an ambulance getting checked out by paramedics, the drug making my head swim, I watched the police lead Mark out of the restaurant in handcuffs. He didn’t look sweet anymore. He looked furious, his eyes searching the crowd until they locked onto mine with a chilling emptiness.
I looked down at my hand. I was still clutching the crumpled receipt. Two little words that cost a waitress her tip, but entirely saved my life.
