Chapter 1 - His Hand Would Not Let Me Look Away
The coffee had gone cold before he reached my table. I remember that because I kept staring at the white cup on its saucer, at the thin skin forming on the surface, and telling myself if I just cleared table six I could get through the rest of my shift without crying in front of anyone. The diner was warm overhead and dark outside the windows, city lights blurred through the glass, and the grill hissed behind me. Then his shadow cut across the light wood and stopped.
He was already too close. Black suit, black shirt and tie, silver watch catching on his left wrist when he moved. He did not ask if he could sit. He stood over my booth and said my name like he had practiced it, low and intense, and at the same time the bell over the kitchen pass rang and Marcy laughed at something on the other side of the counter. Peak noise, peak normal, and him in the middle of it looking only at me.
My name is Emma, I was twenty-eight and working the night shift to make rent.
It was just after eleven. I know because the wall clock buzzed when the minute changed and the coffeepot behind the counter gave that burned smell it gets late at night. He said, "Emma, I've been looking for you." I looked up at him and my eyes were already wet. My lips parted before I could stop them. I could feel my hands trembling against my apron.
He did not step back. He leaned in slowly until his face was near mine, close enough that I could see the stubble along his jaw and the pulse in his throat staying steady while mine ran wild. The saucer rattled when my knee hit the table leg. He looked down at me and said, "Three weeks ago, the burning car." The words landed grave and flat. The heat came back all at once in my memory, gas and smoke and the warped groan of metal. I widened my eyes and could not breathe around it.
I told myself he had the wrong girl. That was the first lie, and I told it to myself, not to him. I shook my head a little and whispered, "Do I know you?" My voice trembled so bad I hated hearing it. He held my look and did not blink. I pushed my hands up halfway, as if I could hold the air between us in place.
"That was you?" I whispered. It came out shocked and too soft, barely over the hum of the coolers. He nodded once. "You saved my life," he said, and his voice broke on the emotion underneath the calm. I started crying harder then, tears falling hot because no one had ever said that to me, and I had never told anyone what I did on that highway shoulder in the dark.
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I should have stood up. I should have called for Marcy. Instead I sat frozen in the vinyl booth with the cold cup between us and the city lights smearing in the window behind him. "Why did you find me?" I asked him, fearful and small. His hand came up and held my face gently, thumb along my cheek, fingers light at my neck, close face-to-face. I could feel him trembling now too, or maybe that was me shaking through him.
"We need to talk about your daughter," he said, low and serious. The front door chimed.
