Chapter 10
The diner was full for the first time all week. Every red booth taken, every stool at the counter filled, the lunch rush humming with plates clanking and the grill hissing behind me. I kept my hands busy. I wiped the same clean spot on the stainless counter and watched the door.
The biker — Ray — sat where he'd sat yesterday, two stools down from the register, his leather vest hanging open, his coffee untouched and gone cold. He didn't look at me much. That was the point. Sheriff Cobb sat three stools down on the other side, plainclothes in a faded county work shirt and a ball cap, a newspaper open he wasn't reading. He'd ordered pie he hadn't touched. When I passed him to refill water, he kept his eyes down.
The bell over the door jingled at 12:18.
The same two men came in. The lead one in the olive jacket, his hair combed neat, the second one half a step behind him. Daylight cut across the windows with the blinds half-open and hit the pie case. They didn't take a booth. They stood near the entrance like yesterday, like they wanted everyone to see them.
My stomach dropped so fast I had to set the carafe down.
It was a fresh pot, half-full, dark and steaming. My hand was on the black plastic lid. I could feel Ray shift on his stool without looking.
The lead man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. He looked straight at me and then at Ray and said it loud enough for the counter to hear.
"Come on, sweetheart, your old man needs coffee."
It was word for word. The same provocation, the same sick sweet tone. A woman two booths down glanced up. The cook paused at the window.
Ray turned slow on his stool. He played tired, annoyed, like any dad would.
I felt the signal catch in my throat. Yesterday I'd whispered it. Today I had to be heard.
"Dad, you've had enough," I said, louder than I wanted to. My voice cracked on the last word.
I saw Cobb's hand move under the newspaper. He didn't look up.
Ray grunted, playing the part. "Don't tell me when I've had enough, honey. You been cutting me off all week."
I stepped around the counter with the carafe, just like we'd rehearsed. I didn't go to the men. I went to Ray. I put my hand on his shoulder and kept the carafe between us. Proximity. Cover. The performance.
The lead man took three steps closer. He wasn't smiling now.
"Funny family," he said. His voice dropped but it still carried. "You know, we asked around. People talk in a small town."
Ray didn't answer. I could feel his shoulder tense under my hand.
"You look just like him," the man said to me. "Same eyes. You ever look at his picture? Your dad?"
The diner got quieter. Someone's fork scraped a plate and stopped.
I didn't have a picture. My mother had told me there was nothing to keep.
"Leave her alone," Ray said, low.
The man ignored him. He kept his eyes on me. He slid an envelope from the inside pocket of his olive jacket and set it on the red laminate counter. It was thick. The corner of folded cash showed.
"Five thousand," he said. "To help you start over. Someplace not here. You and your mom. It's better if you're not here when people start asking questions about what happened to him."
My mouth went dry. I stared at the envelope.
"What's his name?" I said before I could stop myself. "Say his name."
He tilted his head, studying me, deciding how much to give.
"Daniel," he said. "Daniel Reyes. That's your father. You didn't know that, did you? Your mom never told you."
Daniel Reyes. I hadn't heard it before yesterday. My mother's husband had been listed as Daniel Reyes on the paper Ray showed me, but hearing this stranger say it — knowing it — like he owned it made my knees go weak. I gripped the carafe tighter. The coffee shook.
Ray's hand came over mine on the carafe, steadying it. Just like yesterday.
"She's not for sale," Ray said.
The second man by the windows shifted his weight. The lead man pushed the envelope an inch closer to me.
"It's not a sale," he said. "It's advice. You have a nice little life here. Don't dig. Take the help and drive to wherever. Tonight would be good."
From the corner of my eye I saw Sheriff Cobb fold his newspaper. He lifted his mug and took a slow sip, watching us over the rim. Listening.
I slid the envelope back toward the man with the tip of two fingers. I didn't touch the cash.
"We're good here," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted, but it held. "We don't need your help."
The lead man's smile came back, thinner this time. He left the envelope where it was.
"Think about it," he said. "We'll be around."
May you like
He didn't take the money. He turned, nodded to the second man, and they walked out. The bell jingled again and daylight flashed across their backs through the windows. They didn't hurry.
I stood at the counter with the carafe in both hands, breathing hard, watching Ray watch them through the glass. Behind me, Cobb stood up, left two dollars by his pie, and walked out a minute later with his hands in his pockets, not looking at me once.
