“I can send her a text message. Perhaps she can meet you.” He glances at his gold watch. “She goes on break in an hour.”
“That would be great. Please let her know I’ll meet her there. It’s important.” A mix of adrenaline and unease churns in my gut. “Thank you so much.”
“Annalise, right?” He presses forward on the counter.
“That’s right.”
“Is everything okay?”
No. Maybe.
God, I hope.
My lips tremble as I inhale a breath. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’m hoping she can help me with something. Something big.”
He squints at me, trying to untangle my vague response. “Are you—”
“Do you believe everything happens for a reason?” I blurt.
He pauses, the question catching him off guard. The pen stills in his hand. “Sometimes,” he says slowly. “Other times, I think we just find the reason afterward. When we need one.”
I nod, the air swelling in the back of my throat. “I think I need one now.”
He watches me closely, his curiosity softening into something quieter. Almost like recognition. “I’ll text her now,” he says. “I’ll let her know to expect you.”
“Thank you.”
I turn to go, but he stops me with a quiet, “Annalise?”
I look back.
“If this has anything to do with what happened that night…” His eyes turn glossy through his wire-framed glasses.
“This isn’t about blame. I promise.”
“Then what is it about?”
I hesitate because there’s no clean way to say it. No way to wrap the depth of it into one neat sentence. “I’m trying to save someone,” I say, my voice teetering a whisper. “And I think she might be the person who can help me do it.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t press for more. “Good luck,” he replies gently, pulling out his phone.
I step outside, the cold biting through my coat, adrenaline still spinning in my stomach. The sun’s barely climbed above the trees, and it already feels like the most important day of my life.
I don’t know what I’ll say when I see her.
But I know who I’m doing it for.
And I know I’m not leaving without trying.
***
I try to make myself invisible as I slink back in the plush red booth, a freight train of old memories cannoning through me. I know he’s here. Working in the kitchen, sweating over hot stoves, barking at the staff as they try to keep up with never-ending lunch orders.
Tapping a fork against the tabletop, I glance around the diner, hardly recognizing any of the waitresses. “It’s The Same Old Song” by Four Tops jingles from the jukebox, one of my favorites. I’d play it every time I needed a pick-me-up, and Kenna would join me for a few silly dance moves, our laughter contagious as patrons watched and bopped along.
A half hour rolls by, and I order a coffee and a small plate of cottage cheese and peaches, barely touching my meal, too nervous, too buzzing, too terrified.
Swallowing, I shift my gaze to the double doors that lead into the kitchen.
