Chapter 6 - Closing Time Interrogation
The last of the dining room lights clicked off, plunging the upscale restaurant into a moody cavern of shadow and warm amber accents from the few low-wattage fixtures left burning along the back wall. Around me, the clatter of heavy wooden chairs scraping against hardwood and being inverted onto white tablecloths echoed through the empty space. My coworkers were moving with the brisk, practiced exhaustion of people who had been on their feet for ten hours straight, their aprons untied and dragging at their sides as they hurried to finish side work and punch out.
I wiped down the mahogany service station for the third time, my rag moving in dull, repetitive circles over the polished wood. My fingers felt stiff inside the black cotton of my apron pockets, where the coarse texture of the folded white napkin still pressed against my thigh like a physical anchor. Every time the kitchen doors swung open on their heavy hinges, my chest tightened. I half-expected Leo or Sloane to walk back in, or worse, for the consequences of what I had done to materialize in a far more dangerous form.
Instead, it was Arthur, the floor manager, who emerged from the back office. He didn't look tired. He looked furious, his silver hair neatly parted, his tailored vest buttoned tight across his chest as he crossed the dining room with long, deliberate strides. He stopped right beside my station, his hands sliding smoothly into his slacks.
"Put the rag down," Arthur said, his voice low and controlled, the kind of quiet that carried more weight than shouting.
I dropped the damp cloth onto the counter, keeping my movements measured. I smoothed down the front of my crisp white button-down shirt, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair back into my ponytail. "Everything's done, Arthur. The stations are restocked, and the side work's checked off."
"Is it?" Arthur stepped closer, invading my personal space just enough to let me know this wasn't a standard end-of-shift debriefing. His eyes, small and sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, locked onto mine. "Let's talk about table four."
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. I kept my face smooth, forcing every muscle in my jaw to relax. "Table four. The party with the man in the black polo and the woman in the copper dress."
"You remember them, then," Arthur said, a dry edge to his tone. "Good. Because the security footage from the foyer shows you leaning halfway across that table, whispering something urgent to a man who, if you read the financial pages or pay attention to the city's police blotter even once a year, you would know better than to approach."
"I was delivering a message," I said, keeping my voice steady, pitching it at a calm, conversational level that suggested nothing out of the ordinary. "They asked for a specific request regarding their wine pairing, and I accommodated it."
Arthur let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He shook his head, looking down at the floorboards before meeting my gaze again. "A wine pairing. You handed him a napkin, Maya. A paper napkin, right off the tray. And then three minutes later, before their appetizers even hit the table, they stood up, dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the white cloth, and practically ran out the service exit. Not the main dining room door. The service corridor."
"Customers leave early all the time," I replied, refusing to break eye contact. "People have emergencies. Plans change."
"High-profile people—dangerous people—don't bolt from a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner because plans change," Arthur snapped, his temper finally fraying just a fraction beneath his professional veneer. "I've spent five years building a reputation for this room as a neutral zone. A place where men like that can sit down, eat their steaks in peace, and ignore the war happening outside our windows. If you bring your street drama, your personal vendettas, or whatever foolishness you're mixed up in into my dining room, you won't just ruin your shift. You'll ruin us."
"I didn't bring any drama here, Arthur," I said, choosing every word carefully, holding the line between absolute denial and plausible deniability. "I do my job, I clear my tables, and I go home."
Arthur leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Listen to me very carefully, Maya. You're a good waitress when your head is screwed on straight. You're fast, you don't complain, and the customers like you. But I didn't survive twenty years in this industry by ignoring red flags. Consider this a warning. You ever pull a stunt like that again—you ever hand a note to a man with armed men waiting outside—and you won't even make it to the parking lot before I throw your apron in the dumpster."
"Understood," I said quietly, letting a flicker of chastised submission show on my face just to give him what he needed to feel in control.
Arthur held my gaze for another long, heavy second, searching for any sign of defiance or lingering secret. When he found nothing, he gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the office, the door clicking shut behind him.
May you like
I let out a slow, trembling breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My hands were shaking slightly as I untied my black apron and let it drop onto the service counter. My job was hanging by a thread, and the city outside those large glass windows was waiting in the dark.
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