Chapter 2: Closing Time and Long Shadows
The heavy glass door of Benny's Diner chimed twice as the group stepped out into the damp pavement of the parking lot. Through the streaked front window, I watched the three black sedans idle against the curb, their tail lights glowing like embers in the midnight fog. Benny, wiping down the greasy grill with a gray rag, didn't look up from his work.
"Rich crowd tonight," Benny muttered, his raspy voice cutting through the hum of the old refrigerator. "Those suits looked like federal marshals or debt collectors. You know 'em, kid?"
"Never saw them before in my life," I said, my hands shaking as I scraped leftover food into the slop bucket. Every clatter of porcelain sounded deafening in the empty room.
"Right. Well, make sure the back door is bolted when you leave. I'm hitting the cot in the back office." Benny tossed his rag into the sink, shuffled toward the narrow hallway, and left me alone with the flickering neon and the smell of stale coffee and caramelized onions.
I hurried through my closing checklist, scrubbing the counters harder than necessary, trying to scrub away the lingering echo of his voice saying Rosa, Rosa. It wasn't a common name in these parts, and the way he said it—like an invocation, like a ghost stepping out of a fog—made my skin prickle. Five years ago, I had walked away from everything I knew with a duffel bag, two hundred dollars in my pocket, and a recipe book I swore I'd never open again. I thought I had buried that girl in Chicago deep enough that nobody could ever dig her up.
When the floors were mopped and my apron was hung in the locker room, I slipped my wool coat over my shoulders and unlocked the staff exit in the alley. The damp night air hit my face, sharp and cold. I stepped out into the narrow brick corridor that led toward my small apartment three blocks away.
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The alley was normally deserted at this hour, lit only by a swinging amber streetlamp at the corner. But tonight, the shadows near the brick wall seemed heavier. A low rumble of an idling engine vibrated through the wet asphalt.
I froze, my hand tightening around the strap of my canvas purse. A sleek black sedan was parked half-block down, blocking my usual shortcut. The passenger door clicked open, and the tallest of the three bodyguards stepped out onto the wet pavement, blocking my path forward without a single word.
