Page 7 of Bad Intentions

“Oh-ho-ho. How are you, kiddo?” booms the deep voice that belongs to the chief. Steve Zukowski, my grandmother’s old friend, is simply “Chief” to most people who grew up in this town. He is in his sixties and still serving.

“Good, Chief,” I say. “Anything I can get you?”

He and the other two police officers sit at the counter, coffees in front of them as well as condiments.

It’s not my job to serve customers, unless one of the staff doesn’t show up for work, which has only happened three times in the first month of me working here. We have more servers during breakfast, when the diner is often slammed. This is literally the first time in a month that I’m out here, in the dining area, before my shift. It’s barely eight. Usually, when the staff is swamped, I take over the kitchen, the inventory, the washing machine. It’s a dirty job, hence my habit of wearing pullovers and jeans, but I’m getting paid more than anybody on the staff, so I don’t mind.

The main reason is that I don’t want to show my face out here, in the main dining area. In my mind, I’m doing what I have to do—taking over Grandma’s job and taking care of her. In the mind of the locals, I’m “the one who came back.” Coming back to a small town like this before your thirties, after living in a big city, is usually a sign of failure. As per some of the rumors I heard, I came back “with my tail between my legs.”

That’s partially true. Some know what happened to me several months ago. I let them talk, meanwhile cleaning their dirty dishes and ordering twenty pounds of bacon weekly and hearing every rumor about their personal lives from the kitchen staff.

“I’m good,” the chief answers. “How is your grandmother?”

He and Grandma go way back. I saw him in our house often when I was growing up. When I returned to Burnville two months ago, he came to check on me, gave me a rundown of what’s up. To welcome me back, he said, though it was probably to get the details about Grandma’s condition, because she keeps telling everyone, “I’m fine. Getting old is not exactly a prize.”

“She’s good,” I say to the chief. “She’s stubborn, you know? I hope the cancer realizes it messed with the wrong person and takes a step back.”

His chest shakes in laughter, and the two officers next to him smile in understanding. My grandma has always had the reputation of a powerful woman. There were several of them, the women who ran this town. They owned bars. Back in the day, in a place like Burnville, that carried weight.

Since the incident twenty-five years ago, her reputation shifted in a dark direction. That’s what they call it, the incident back then. Since the trial, the town’s opinions are split—those who shunned my grandmother and those who weren’t sure what went down the night of the murder. The Hartzels won’t even set foot in this diner. Understandable, I guess, considering one of them was the actual victim.

“She is a fighter,” I tell the chief.

“She is. That she is,” the chief says, his expression softening.

“Can I get a refill?” a voice calls from the other end of the counter.

I spin around.

I didn’t see her come in. The girl looks like she’s out of place, maybe took the wrong exit on Interstate 80 and ended up in this place by accident.

She is in her twenties. Dark eyes. Sharp features. Pretty. Not a local, no way, not with those thick long braids, dyed bright neon blue, cascading down to her waist. Stark makeup, eyeliner and dark-green eyeshadow, unusual at this time in the morning. A black leather jacket zipped up to her neck. She’s too cool for this town, despite how prejudiced this might sound, but I, of all people, know that country life can make one careless about one’s appearance. She must be just passing through.

I grab the coffee pot from the coffee machine and refill her cup, giving her a quick up-and-down. As I’m walking away, she stops me. “Can I get more creamer? And more sugar? Not Splenda or whatever this fake stuff is.”

The girl waves her forefinger above the sugar caddy with Splenda in it.

“Sure.” I grab a full one and set it next to her. “Anything else? Baileys?” I joke dryly.

The girl smirks. “I wish. God knows I need some. Is BYOB a thing here?”

A rule-breaker, huh?

I’m about to ask her if she wants the menu when the hatching window buzzer rings, and I have to help Sue put the plates with food on her tray, all the while wondering about the girl with the blue hair.

She is an outsider. It’s obvious by the outfit, the attitude, the way she holds herself. A faint scent of incense radiates from her. Bracelets and bangles on her wrists. Rings on her fingers.

She has a story, this one. I bet there’s a reason she is in this town. Most people back in Pittsburgh who know me say that coming back is a downgrade. And no one downgrades these days unless they are losers or in trouble.

I’m here in Burnville, Pennsylvania. And that’s⁠—

“Rough morning, huh?” the chief asks.

He said it. And how would he know?

“No,” I lie.

“Never seen you here so early.”