Chapter 1 - The Silver Dome Between Us
The silver cloche caught the low light as I balanced it at waist height, the polished dome throwing a soft circle onto the white tablecloth at Table 7. My hands didn't shake. That was the contradiction I felt in my chest — my pulse was hammering against my ribs but my fingers stayed steady around the tray's edge, the little finial on top glinting every time I breathed. The restaurant was warm and dim, cream walls and draped curtains muting the murmur of the other diners, and the stemmed wine glass on the left side of the table threw a long shadow toward the white structured handbag sitting on the right.
Vanessa Hale didn't look at the cloche. Her blonde hair was perfect under the recessed lights, her white blazer sharp against the chair, diamonds flashing at her throat and from the teardrop earrings when she turned her chin toward me. She had been laughing with the man across from her a second before, and then she looked up at me like I'd spilled something on her.
My name is Maya Quinn.
It was 8:42 on a Thursday night in Manhattan, Table 7, the second seating. I had been on my feet since five, my white long-sleeve button-down tucked neatly into my black waist apron, my dark hair pulled back in its center part. I had lifted the tray from the pass, walked the four steps to their table, and set my eyes briefly down the way I'd been trained to — a slight closed-mouth smile, a small nod — before I raised my gaze. The wine glass was half-full. The handbag's top handles stood upright. The cloche was still covered. Nothing had been revealed yet and everything was already about to break.
She saw the pause before I spoke and filled it herself. Her mouth opened wide, her brows tight, her voice carrying just enough to make the couple at the next table pretend not to hear.
"You illiterate nobody."
I let the words hang there. I didn't flinch. I tilted my head a fraction and felt the cold smile settle on my mouth, the one I'd practiced in the bathroom mirror on my break. My breathing stayed slow. The diamonds at her neck caught the warm light again as she leaned back, waiting for me to apologize or disappear.
"Illiterate?" I said.
It was quiet. Just that one word. I kept my eyes on hers and watched the condescending certainty flicker. My hands stayed near the tray. I gave her a beat of silence and then said it the way I'd heard it in my head for three weeks, calm and even, without raising my voice.
"I can read the texts in your second phone."
Her smile vanished. The man's hands, which had been clasped loosely near his chest, tightened. He was in his early thirties, dark hair, dark suit with a white shirt and dark tie, and until that moment he had been the observer, his serious, focused expression turned slightly toward her. Now his gaze sharpened and locked on me, and the air at the table went completely still.
He didn't look at his wife. He looked at me like he was trying to place a face he'd never seen before and should have.
May you like
"Who are you?" he said.
I didn't answer. The cloche sat between us, untouched, its reflection holding all three of us warped and small. The handbag hadn't moved. The wine glass hadn't moved. A server passed behind me with a tray and slowed without stopping. Vanessa's hand drifted toward the handbag and stopped halfway, her fingers hovering just above the leather. The man's stare didn't waver. I held his eyes and felt the entire restaurant narrow down to that white circle of tablecloth and that silver dome no one had lifted yet.
