Page 100 of What We Burn

A guy walks in. He’s tallish, baseball cap low, backpack slung over one shoulder. Doesn’t look around like a regular. He scans the room quick, eyes landing on Fury before he heads to a corner booth. Something about him itches. The way he sits, back to the wall, facing the door. Backpack on the seat beside him, not the floor.

I grab my phone to text Milo. He’s at work, but I know he’s monitoring his phone.

Me:

Guy just went in. Cap, backpack. Check feed.

Milo:

On it. Camera angle’s shit—can’t get a face. You got visual?

Me:

Not from here.

Milo:

Go in. Get a better look. Don’t spook kitten.

I tuck the phone away, step out of the truck, and cross the street like I’m just another customer grabbing lunch. The bell jingles when I push the door open. Fury is at the booth already, notepad out, coffee pot in hand. She’s smiling, but it’s tight—I’ve seen her real smiles. This one’s off.

“—take your coffee?” she’s asking.

The guy looks up at her. His cap shadows his eyes, but I catch the way his gaze drags down from her face to the choker and stays there. He leans back, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Black.” He’s still staring at her neck. The choker has slipped a little, enough to reveal the edge of her scars. “Somebody’s been having fun?”

Fury’s jaw tightens and she pours the coffee too fast, liquid sloshing close to the rim. She sets it down with a clink.

“You want food with the coffee, or . . . ?”

“Sure. You got pie?”

“I’ll see if we have any left.”

She turns, spots me, and her expression shifts—relief mixed with annoyance. I don’t acknowledge her. I cross to the booth and sit down across from the guy. No preamble. No explanation.

He startles, backpack clutched tighter. “Uh, can I help you?”

I don’t say a word, letting the silence stretch, letting my size fill the booth, making it smaller. His eyes dart to the door, then back to me. Sweat beads on his forehead.

“Look, man, I think you got the wrong table⁠—”

“Leave.”

He swallows hard, glances at Fury—who’s watching from behind the counter, arms folded, looking pissed—then grabs his backpack and bolts, bell jingling behind him.

Fury storms over, eyes flashing. “What the hell, Knox? I had it handled.”

“Didn’t look handled.”

“He was hitting on me. Badly. Seriously, I’m hit on by nearly every third customer.” She keeps her voice low, but the heat is all there. “You can’t storm in here every time a guy looks at me sideways.”

“He was talking about your neck.”

“He thought I was covering up hickeys, Knox—which I kind of am after the weekend. It’s what most people think when they see a woman my age in a thick velvet choker. It’s not a threat. It’s a freaking Tuesday.”

I don’t have a good answer for that, so I don’t give one.

She huffs, glancing around—the diner’s still buzzing, no one paying much attention. She heads over to the other waitress on shift. “Hey, Rosa. I need some air. Cover for me?”