Chapter 4 - Walk With Him to the Back
He did not touch me. He just tipped his chin toward the side of the dining room, past the wine glass rack and the swinging door with the round window, and said it low enough that only I and the closest tables heard.
"Back hallway. Now."
I couldn't move at first. My legs felt locked under me. The white tablecloth next to me was too bright under the chandelier light, and the plated dish was still sitting there with the fork beside it where his hand had stopped. I kept looking at it because I didn't want to look at all the faces turned toward us.
A younger man in a dark suit stepped up to my left. Not a waiter. One of his. He didn't grab my arm, but he stood close enough that I felt the heat off his jacket.
"This way," he said.
I started walking. My shoes made no sound on the carpet, then a sharp sound on the tile once we left the dining room. The air changed. Out there it had smelled like butter and red wine and chandelier dust. In the service corridor it smelled like bleach and damp cardboard and hot plates.
Behind me, I heard it start. Not loud. Just that low wash of whispers rising off the tables.
"She said her mother—"
"Did you hear what she—"
"She shouldn't have said that."
My bow tie felt too tight. I wanted to pull at it, but I kept my hands clenched at my sides.
The hallway was narrow. Boxes of napkins were stacked against the wood paneling where it gave way to painted drywall. Someone had left a bus tub full of silverware on the floor. The escort nudged it aside with his foot without breaking stride.
He stopped me outside the little office by the dry storage. The door was half open. Inside there was a metal desk, a single overhead bulb, a stack of invoices, and a chair. No window.
"In here," he said.
I looked back down the hall. The older man was still in the dining room doorway, talking to someone I couldn't see. His pinstripe suit caught the warm light for a second, the white pocket square bright against his chest. He glanced toward me once, and that was enough to freeze me in place.
The escort noticed me staring at the dining room.
"He said nobody touches you," he said. "That goes for back here too. Got it?"
I nodded too fast. "Yes."
My apron strings had come loose while I walked. The long white apron was twisting around my knees. I reached back without thinking and pulled the knot free, then folded it over my arm. Underneath, my black vest was wrinkled and my white shirt was damp at the back. I left the vest on. I left the bow tie on. Taking them off felt like giving up the only uniform that said I belonged there.
I thought about the table. Part of me wanted to run back and grab the fork, grab the plate, hold onto something that proved what I'd done. If I had the dish in my hands, I could point to the garnish, to the way the sauce sat. I could show them I hadn't poisoned anything, hadn't messed it up.
But the escort was watching, and the older man had told me to move. If I went back for it, they'd think I was trying to hide evidence or clear the table like nothing happened.
So I forced myself to memorize it instead. White porcelain, wide rim. The green tucked on the left side. The fork to the right of the plate, knife beside it. The small smear where he'd pushed a bite aside. I repeated it in my head so I wouldn't lose it.
The office bulb buzzed. My breathing sounded too loud in that small space.
The escort leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, blocking the way out but not crowding me.
"Wait here," he said.
May you like
Footsteps came down the hall. Slow, heavy. Not a waiter's quick steps. I knew who it was before I saw him. My hands tightened around the folded apron until my knuckles hurt, and I stared at the desk because I didn't trust my face.
The doorway darkened, and he was there.
