The first scream came when the glass shattered. The second came when the gun went off—not fired at anyone, just into the ceiling, a warning that peeled the nerves raw. Rhoda dropped behind the counter with the others, the smell of gunpowder sharp and unreal, like something borrowed from a movie.
The robbery lasted three minutes and forty-two seconds.
Rhoda counted every breath because it was the only thing she could still control.
Her cheek was pressed to the marble floor, cold enough to sting. The air smelled wrong—burnt metal, shattered glass, something sharp and electric that crawled into her lungs.
"Eyes down. Nobody moves."
The voice didn't shout.
It didn't need to.
It cut through the chaos like a blade sliding between ribs—low, even, precise. It belonged to the man standing at the center of the lobby, directing the violence with small gestures, as if he were conducting an orchestra instead of an armed robbery. Someone near her was crying. Someone else was praying under their breath.
Footsteps thundered. Drawers slammed. A bag unzipped.
Then another voice—older, rougher. "Hurry it up."
Rhoda told herself not to look.
She did anyway.
Heavy black boots crossed her line of sight. A gloved hand cleared cash from a drawer with efficient speed. The man vaulted the counter in one smooth motion, and something slipped free from his vest.
It hit the floor, slid, and stopped inches from her face.
A wallet.
For half a second, the world narrowed to that scuffed piece of leather. Sirens wailed somewhere outside. Glass crunched under running feet. Someone screamed.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up.
She grabbed the wallet and shoved it into her waistband just as the doors slammed shut and tires screamed against pavement. The manager was yelling into a phone. A security guard was on his knees, pale and furious with himself.
"Ma'am? Are you hurt?"
She shook her head too fast. "No. No, I'm fine."
The lie slid out easily.
The silence afterward was deafening.
Rhoda sat there shaking, heart racing, aware of three things with sickening clarity:
She was a witness.
She was a victim.
And she had just made a mistake she couldn't undo.