Chapter 1: The Glass Front Door
The morning rush had thinned out to a quiet lull, leaving only the steady hum of the refrigeration units and the low murmur of talk radio from the kitchen speaker. I stood behind the metallic counter, my fingers curved around the handle of a glass coffee pot filled with dark coffee. The air smelled of burnt toast, bacon grease, and the lemon-scented bleach I’d used an hour ago on the red vinyl stools. Across from me, seated on one of those round stools, was a middle-aged man with short graying hair and a thick gray beard, wearing a dark brown leather jacket that looked heavy for the spring weather. He’d been sitting there for twenty minutes nursing a single black cup, staring down at the formica grain without saying a word.
Then the plate-glass front door of the diner swung inward with a sharp, rattling snap against the interior stop.
The ambient noise of the room seemed to drop out entirely. Several men in dark jackets walked through the diner glass front door, moving with an easy, synchronized purpose that immediately set my teeth on edge. They didn't look like regular customers looking for a booth or a quick slice of pie. Their shoulders were square, their eyes sweeping the room in short, calculated arcs, taking in the empty booths, the kitchen swinging door, and finally locking onto the counter where I stood.
Panic hit the back of my throat like dry dust. My hands tightened around the glass coffee pot, my knuckles turning white as I stared toward the entrance with wide, frightened eyes, gripping the handle tighter as the men loomed closer, their dark jackets cutting sharp silhouettes against the bright daylight pouring through the front windows. I could feel my pulse hammering against my ribs, a fast, irregular drumbeat that drowned out everything else.
The bearded man beside me didn't flinch. Instead, he shifted his weight on the red stool, turned his head slightly, and spoke directly to me while holding my gaze across the diner counter, his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of panic.
"Pretend I'm your dad, follow my lead."
I stared at him in utter disbelief and confusion, my mouth slightly open, the heat of the coffee pot forgotten against my palm. The words made no sense. I had lived in this town my entire life, and my father had been buried in the dry soil of the county cemetery three years ago under a simple granite marker.
"Why are you doing this for me?" I whispered, my voice trembling so badly I barely recognized it as my own.
The men in the dark jackets were halfway across the linoleum now, their leather-soled shoes clicking with a rhythmic authority that closed the distance between us second by second. I looked from their approaching figures back to the man in the leather jacket, waiting for him to break character, to smile, to tell me it was some kind of grim joke.
May you like
Instead, he leaned in close to the waitress, speaking in a low, serious tone while maintaining intense eye contact that held me steady right at the edge of breaking.
"Your dad and I go way back."
