Chapter 67 A Pack Of Vultures

• SERAPHINA
• The cafeteria buzzed with the low hum of afternoon chatter—utensils clinking against trays, the lingering scent of eggs and meat broth hanging in the air like the ghost of an old perfume. I took another bite of my grilled chicken wrap just as the man seated across from me leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.
• “Wow,” he said, loud enough for nearby tables to go quiet. “Would you look at that? Murderers do get hungry.”