I turned over the receipt with trembling hands. Written in rushed, jagged pen were just two words:
“Run. Now.”

My heart sank. I looked over at him—smiling, pretending to check his phone, but now I saw it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he glanced over his shoulder every few seconds. The fear wasn’t mine anymore—it was hers. That waitress had seen something… something I didn’t.

I excused myself to the bathroom. Inside, I locked the door, took a deep breath, and checked the receipt again. There were more words scrawled beneath in a different ink:
“He’s not who you think. He’s wanted.”

I called the police, gave them the name he used, and waited, heart pounding.

Minutes later, they stormed in.

Turns out, his card hadn’t been declined. He had multiple identities. Wanted in three states. And I had been this close to going home with him.

The waitress saved my life. I never even got her name.

But I left her a note the next day, taped to a flower bouquet:
“You lied to save a stranger. Thank you for seeing what I couldn’t.”