Lena's smile faltered slightly. "Maybe he's on a strict schedule? Cops have routines, right?"
"The day after he first came in, he pulled me over on my way to work." Ann's voice had dropped even lower, forcing Lena to lean in to hear her. "Of all the police officers in this city, it was him. He knew my name before I showed him my license."
"Your name tag?—"
"No. The way he said it—it was like he'd been waiting for me. Testing me." Ann's eyes darted involuntarily to the entrance again. "And I've been seeing patrol cars. Following routes similar to mine. Parked near places I go."
Lena waved a dismissive hand. "This is a small city, Ann. There are police cars everywhere."
"No, you don't understand." Desperation edged into Ann's voice now. "I've been keeping track. Writing it all down. The patterns, they're too specific to be a coincidence."
"Writing it down?" Lena's tone sharpened with sudden interest. "Like a log?"
Ann nodded, folding another napkin with mechanical precision. "Dates, times, locations. Where he sits, what he orders, how long he stays." She hesitated. "Yesterday I made a turn I never make—just to see. And the patrol car that had been behind me went straight instead. But then when I got home…."
"What happened when you got home?" All traces of dismissal had vanished from Lena's voice.
"There was a different patrol car parked two blocks from my apartment." Ann's hands had begun to tremble again, more violently now. "As if he knew I was testing him, so he switched vehicles."
Lena's expression shifted, her earlier amusement draining away like water down a sink. She reached out, gripping Ann's wrist with surprising strength, her silver bangles clinking softly with the movement.
"My cousin Elisa," Lena began, her tone heavy with significance, "dated a cop in Baltimore three years ago. Just a couple of dates, nothing serious. But when she tried to end it, he startedshowing up everywhere—her work, her gym, the coffee shop she liked." Lena's grip tightened. "He said it was his patrol route. Said it was coincidence. It wasn't. He was totally stalking her."
Ann felt a chill spread through her chest despite the heat seeping into the service area from the kitchen. "What happened?"
"She found out he was using police resources to track her movements. Running her plates to see where she'd been. Getting her phone records." Lena's eyes had hardened. "He knew things he shouldn't have known. When she threatened to report him, suddenly, there were traffic tickets. Parking violations. A neighbor called in a noise complaint that never happened."
Ann's mouth had gone dry. "Did she report him?"
"Eventually. But it took months, and half the department closed ranks around him at first." Lena released Ann's wrist but kept her voice low. "Some men with badges think they're entitled to whatever—or whoever—they want. The badge just gives them tools most stalkers don't have."
The word hung in the air between them. Stalker. Ann had been circling around it in her mind for days, unwilling to give it substance by saying it aloud. But hearing it in this context, from someone else, made it suddenly, terribly real.
"He's so polite," Ann said, her voice small and uncertain. "Always smiles, always leaves a good tip. Never says anything inappropriate."
"The well-behaved ones are the scariest," Lena countered. "They're the ones who know exactly how far they can push before crossing a line anyone else would notice."
The front door opened, admitting a couple seeking dinner. Ann flinched visibly, her eyes darting to the entrance before she could stop herself. The automatic reaction didn't escape Lena's notice.
"You're scared of him," Lena observed, not a question but a statement.
Ann nodded, unable to deny what was clearly written in her body's instinctive response. "I feel like I'm going crazy. Like maybe I'm seeing patterns that aren't there."
"You're not crazy," Lena said firmly. "And from what you'retelling me, those patterns are real." She glanced toward the kitchen, then back at Ann. "Have you told anyone else?"
"No. I mean, Miriam knows he comes in regularly, but she thinks it's… cute. That he has a crush or something." Ann forced herself to resume folding napkins, needing the small task to ground her. "I sound paranoid when I say it out loud."
"You don't sound paranoid to me," Lena said, her voice hard with conviction. "You sound like someone whose instincts are trying to protect her."
Ann swallowed hard, relief at being believed mingling with the terror of having her fears confirmed by someone else. "What do I do?"
"We'll figure this out," Lena promised, squeezing Ann's arm. "For now, just try to act normal. We'll talk more after close."
Ann pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, the relative sanctuary of stainless steel and steam enveloping her like a cocoon. She leaned against the wall briefly, eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing. The conversation with Lena had left her feeling exposed, as if her private fears had been written across her face in ink, visible to everyone but herself. When she opened her eyes, she found Chef Cho watching her from the prep station, hands never pausing in their rhythmic dicing of red peppers, the knife's blade catching the overhead lights in quick, controlled flashes.
"You look like someone just walked over your grave," Chef Cho observed, her tone matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic. She swept the diced peppers aside with the flat of her knife and reached for an onion, peeling it with efficient movements.
"I'm fine," Ann said automatically, the denial worn smooth from repetition throughout the evening.
