Chapter 7
By noon, the diner windows had turned the street silver with glare. I sat at the table by the front window with both hands around a glass of iced tea, watching cars pass through the heat.
I had chosen the diner because it was public, familiar, and close enough to leave if I needed to. That was the explanation I gave myself. The other reason was Malik.
He moved behind the counter with the quiet efficiency I had come to recognize. He refilled coffee, carried plates, checked the register, and never once looked toward me in a way that made me feel monitored. When he passed my table, he only asked, “You doing all right?”
“I am.”
He nodded as if my answer belonged to me.
The ordinary hour lasted nearly twenty minutes before I realized I was waiting for something to go wrong. A door opening. A shadow pausing outside. A message lighting up my phone.
Nothing happened.
Malik brought me a bowl of soup and set it down without asking. “On the house.”
“I didn't order it.”
“I know.”
“That sounds dangerous for a night manager.”
“It could get me written up.”
I looked at him. “You don't seem worried.”
“I've survived worse than paperwork.”
His smile was brief, but it stayed with me. I ate slowly. We talked about small things at first—how he preferred early shifts because the kitchen was calmer, how he had learned to recognize customers by the way they closed the front door, how I worked better when no one stood behind me.
“You don't like people behind you,” he said.
“Not lately.”
He accepted that without trying to make me explain.
When his shift ended, he washed his hands, changed his shirt, and came to the table carrying a coffee for himself. He remained standing.
“I can sit somewhere else,” he said.
The words were careful enough to hurt.
I moved my bag from the chair across from me. “Sit here.”
He paused. “Are you sure?”
“I asked you to.”
He sat, leaving the table between us. Daylight made him look less like the person who had stepped into the alley and more like the man who had listened while I decided what to do next. I told him I liked old movies, though I rarely had the patience to finish them. He told me he kept a notebook of recipes he had no intention of cooking. We laughed quietly about that.
After a while, I said, “I asked you to sit because I wanted you here. Not because I needed someone to watch the door.”
His eyes stayed on mine. “I know the difference.”
The answer settled between us.
When we stood to leave, my hand brushed his. I could have pulled away immediately. Instead, I let my fingers rest against his for one breath, then another. His hand turned slightly, not closing around mine, only meeting it.
It was a small touch. I chose it, and that made it enough.
I returned to the table because I had left my phone near the window. Across the street, beyond the parked cars, a man stood facing the alley entrance.
He wasn't wearing the dark hoodie. He had on a light jacket and a baseball cap, his hands loose at his sides. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I recognized the way he held himself—still, patient, as though waiting for a private moment to begin.
My breathing changed.
The man looked toward the alley, then toward the diner. His gaze found the window.
He saw me looking.
He turned away at once and walked down the sidewalk without hurrying.
“Malik,” I said.
He came beside me but didn't reach for me. “Do you know him?”
“I think it's Caleb Voss.”
“Think?”
“I've seen him at work. I can't swear to the face from here.”
I pulled out my phone. “Don't follow him.”
“I won't.”
“Write down the time. And what he was wearing.”
Malik took out his phone, but he looked at me before typing. “Tell me what you want recorded.”
I gave him the details: the light jacket, the cap, the direction he walked, the alley entrance he had watched. The wall clock above the counter read 12:47 p.m.
Then I called Detective Ortiz myself.
She answered on the fourth ring. I described what I had seen and what I could not prove. I told her Malik had been present and had made a separate note of the time. Ortiz asked whether I was in immediate danger.
“No,” I said. “He left.”
“Don't go after him. Keep your phone available. I'll check whether Voss had a work reason to be nearby.”
After the call ended, I remained by the window. Malik stood beside me, close enough to be there and far enough not to decide what I should do next.
May you like
Outside, the alley entrance looked ordinary in the noon light.
I knew better now. Ordinary places could still hold evidence.
