I dress quietly in jeans and a sweater, pulling my coat from the hook by the back door. The morning is brittle with cold, my breath clouding in front of me as I step outside.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. There’s no one to keep me company. Not even the rooster.
Without conscious thought, my feet take me to my truck, and I start driving to the one place where everything makes sense—the diner. The familiar space welcomes me, smelling of coffee and grease and comfort. I flip on just the kitchen lights, leaving the dining area in shadow.
The routine soothes me—measuring coffee, filling the machine, listening to it gurgle and hiss. I lean against the counter, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot, trying to quiet my mind.
The back door opens, and I startle, nearly dropping my mug, since we don’t use that door in the mornings.
“Sorry,” Roman says, raising his hands. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I got milk in my truck; didn’t want to carry it around the whole building.”
“It’s fine,” I say, relaxing. “What are you doing here so early?”
He hangs his coat on the hook. “Could ask you the same thing.”
I shrug, not ready to talk about it. Roman, bless him, doesn’t push. He moves around the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling out pans, turning on the grill.
“Figured I’d start the biscuits early today,” he says, his voice a comfortable rumble in the quiet. “Got a feeling we might be busy.”
I pour him coffee out of habit, sliding it across the counter. “Thanks for not asking.”
He nods, taking a sip. “It takes everything in me not to.”
I smile weakly because I know just how much it takes for him to stay quiet, and we start working in companionable silence, him mixing dough, me prepping vegetables for the day’s soup—I’ve never been happier to help Roman with veggie chopping. The methodical work is meditative, allowing my thoughts to settle.
After a while, not looking up from his work, Roman says, “He came by the diner yesterday evening, looking like death crawled out of his ass. Didn’t say why but I figured he was looking for you.”
I don’t pretend not to know who he means. “What did you tell him?”
“That whatever he did, he’d better get his shit figured out, or I’d be doing a different kind of chopping.” He separates out the biscuit dough with precise movements.
I nod, focusing on the carrots under my knife.
“He looked really rough though,” Roman continues, his tone casual but his words deliberate.
My knife stills. “Did he tell you why?”
“No,” Roman glances up. “Should he?”
I shrug, contemplating if I should tell him.
“Is it about him being a con?”
My head whips toward him. “You knew?”
He shrugs, returning to his biscuits. “Suspected. My cousin Vitaly did five years upstate. Way he carried himself after. Way he checked exits in a room. Way he never quite relaxed, even at family dinners. Got confirmation yesterday evening though, when someone came to the diner and started talking about it. Suppose Dick had been busy running his mouth the whole day.”
I swallow hard, resuming my chopping. “So, he told everyone after he told me then.”
“Who?” He freezes midair with a spatula. “Dick?”
“Yes. He told me.”
“Figures.” Roman slides a tray of raw biscuits into the oven. “He’s had it out for the fella since the moment they met.”
“He has.” I let out a surprised chuckle.
“What was he in for?” he asks nonchalantly while grabbing a knife from the magnet holder on the wall.
