Love is a lie.

At least, that’s what the sign above the door tells me. It’s written in large looping letters. Little hearts dotted along the edges and a lipstick mark in the bottom left corner. It looks like a sign that should be hanging crooked in the hallway of a high school, not boldly declaring the decline of humanity during the morning rush at a coffee shop.

There are streamers too. Red and white and dangling from the hanging baskets by the window. They twist back and forth violently every time someone slips in from the street, relaxing back to their sad, wilted loops as soon as the door shuts again.

I frown at a red balloon with an X drawn over it in Sharpie, scratching at the scruff along my jaw as I wait for Jackson to come back to our table. A woman with a satchel the size of a small country smacks into the back of my head and I cross my arms over my chest, kicking my legs out halfway into the aisle to protect my peace. If Jackson doesn’t come back soon, I might start eating the saltshaker. I demanded a croissant, two bagels, and a coffee the size of my face as soon as we sat down. Payment for pulling me out of bed at this ungodly hour.

I’m usually too tired from a ­late-night shift to drag myself from bed any earlier than ten. But Jackson had insisted, and then switched to threats when his insistence didn’t work. I’d been too shocked at his language to come up with an appropriate excuse. In our four years of working together at the radio station, I’ve never heard Jackson raise his voice, let alone threaten bodily harm if I didn’t agree to meet him at the tiny bookshop café two blocks from his house.

Be at Skullduggery at eight, he said. Or I’m coming for you.