It's 1:17 AM. Del is in the back again—he's always in the back now, like he's given up on pretending to stay awake—and I'm rearranging the pie case because there's nothing else to do. Apple, cherry, pecan, chocolate silk. The chocolate silk has been there since Monday and no one has ordered a single slice, but Del refuses to throw it away because "someone might want it," and I've learned not to argue with him about food waste.
The door chimes.
I don't look up. I've trained myself not to look up when the door chimes, because looking up means making eye contact, and making eye contact means inviting conversation, and conversation at this hour is never about anything good. I keep my hands on the pie case and my eyes on the chocolate silk and I wait for the customer to sit down or leave or do whatever they're going to do.
They don't sit. They don't leave.
I feel them watching me. A presence at the edge of my peripheral vision, solid and still and patient. The hair on my arms stands up—that same thunderstorm feeling, that same electric charge—and I know who it is before I turn around.
He's standing by the counter, three feet from the stool he sat on last time. Same suit, different color. Dark grey, almost black, with a tie that matches exactly. His shirt is white and crisp and expensive-looking, and there's no blood on any of it. No bandage visible beneath the fabric. No sign that anything happened to him at all.
His hand isn't pressed to his side this time. It's resting on the counter, fingers spread, casual. Like he owns the place.
Maybe he does. I wouldn't know.
"Good evening, Monika."
His voice is the same. Low. Rough. The kind of voice that's used to being listened to. It slides under my skin before I can stop it, settles somewhere in my chest, and I hate how much I don't hate it.
"The diner's not a good place for convalescence," I say. "You should be in bed."
"I am fully recovered." He tilts his head, and something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. "Your work was exceptional."
"My work was a first aid kit and a bottle of vodka. Any idiot with steady hands could have done it."
"But they didn't." He pulls out the stool and sits, crossing his arms on the counter. "You did."
I don't know what to say to that. So I do what I always do when I don't know what to say: I reach for the coffee pot.
"Coffee?"
"Please."
"Black?"
"You remember."
I pour. The coffee is fresh—I made it at midnight, out of boredom, and it's still hot enough to steam. He wraps his hands around the mug and doesn't drink. Just holds it. Like the warmth is what he wanted, not the caffeine.
"You're not going to ask," he says.
"Ask what?"
"Who I am. What I do. Why someone shot me."
"No." I set the pot down and lean against the counter across from him. "I'm not."
"Why not?"
I think about it. The answer comes easier than I expect.
"Because you wouldn't tell me the truth. And I don't want to hear the lie."
He smiles. It's the same small twitch as before, barely a movement of the lips, but it changes everything. Softens the sharp edges of his face. Makes him look almost approachable, almost human, almost like someone I could imagine sitting across from in a different context.
"You're perceptive," he says.
"I'm a farm girl. We learn to read animals. Same skill set."
