ONE
LINDSAY
I’m not cutout for customer service.
Never have been. Never will be.
But tips are tips, and until I figure out how to blow this town for good, I need the damn money.
So I fake a smile. The kind that says,Please leave me alone, I don’t get paid enough for this shit. It works about half the time. The other half? They tip me too well anyway. I don’t know why. Maybe they like my attitude. Maybe they can’t tell I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than refill their coffee. Who knows.
I top off a guy’s coffee at the counter without a word. He grins at me, like we’re old friends. We aren’t. He’s one of those trucker types passing through, and if he calls me “darlin’” one more time, I’ll pour this sludge over his head.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he drawls.
Sweetheart? Not much better.
I arch a brow. “You sure you wanna thank me? Pretty sure this stuff could take the rust off your rig.”
He laughs, dropping a crumpled five into the tip jar for a two-dollar coffee. I shrug and fish the bill out before he can change his mind.
Two booths over, a pair of older ladies wave me down. They are the type who come in every week after church—blue hair and heavy perfume clouding the air. Not the same vibrant color ofmyblue hair…no, it's the kind of color they get from using that blue rinse to combat their gray hair from turning yellow.
One slides her empty plate toward me. “Hon, would you be a dear and bring us a slice of that peach pie? And maybe smile a little, hmm? That frown will cause wrinkles.”
I force a smirk. “You’ll get the pie. The smile costs extra. Gotta save up for that Botox.”
They chuckle like I just told the world’s funniest joke. One of them tucks a ten under her saucer. Patting it to make sure I catch the move.
I shake my head as I walk away. No idea why they tip me at all. Maybe they think it’s charming. Maybe they’re just used to ornery waitresses in this part of nowhere.
Or maybe…it’s something else.
I shove that thought down. Same way I shove away everything else that doesn’t make sense in this town.
I’m halfway through pouring another round of burnt sludge into chipped mugs when the bell over the door jingles.
I glance up. Habit. But there’s no one there. The wind blows the old door open sometimes, but it doesn't look breezy outside today. My grip on the coffee pot tightens. The lights overhead flicker once, buzzing loud enough to grate on my last nerve.
Old building. Old wiring. Not exactly a shock.
But the air feels different. Not the barely working AC kicking on or the way it smells in the early afternoon after the breakfast and brunch rush is done, and we can finally breathe again, different.
This is thicker. Like the whole diner’s holding its breath. I turn back toward the counter and stop cold. There’s an envelope sitting there.
I didn’t put it there. No one walked behind me. No one could’ve without me seeing them.
It’s thick. Heavy. The kind of parchment that belongs in a museum, not in my rundown excuse for a workplace. No stamp. No return address. Just my name scrawled in perfect black ink across the front.
Lindsay Elise Blake.
My middle name hits hard. No one calls me that. Hell, I barely remember the last time I even heard it. Maybe before my gran died, when she chastised me because of something Old Ethel told her.
My pulse jumps. I scan the diner. No one’s watching me.
Of course they aren’t, I'm being paranoid. I pick up the envelope. It’s warm. That’s not normal, and I’m pretty sure not caused by paranoia.
I rip it open, hands not as steady as I’d like. The paper inside smells faintly of smoke and…herbs? Something old. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It brings with it the feeling of the air before lightning strikes.
