Matt fell into step beside me, his movements as fluid and controlled as my own. We'd developed a rhythm in our days on the run, a synchronized dance of survival that required no verbal coordination.
Chapter 22
THEN:
Ann's hands trembled as she tied her apron strings, fumbling twice before the bow took shape behind her back. She'd arrived fifteen minutes early for her shift, scanning the parking lot before darting inside Granger's through the back entrance. No patrol cars today—at least none she could see. Her neck prickled with the phantom sensation of being watched anyway. This feeling had become her constant companion since Marcus Hale first walked into the restaurant and fixed those observant eyes on her.
The break room was mercifully empty except for Miriam, who sat at the small table folding napkins into perfect triangles, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She looked up as Ann entered, her brows immediately knitting together.
"Jesus, Ann. You look like you haven't slept in days."
Ann touched the shadows she knew must be visible beneath her eyes. "Is it that obvious?"
"Like a neon sign." Miriam pushed a stack of napkins toward her. "Here, make yourself useful while you tell me what's going on."
Ann sank into the chair opposite Miriam, taking a napkin with unsteady fingers. The white cloth felt cool and crisp, a small anchor to reality as her thoughts threatened to spiral. The rhythmic motion of folding—corner to corner, smoothing the crease, folding again—gradually steadied her hands, though her heart continued its rapid drumming against her ribs.
"It's Marcus," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, though they were alone. "Officer Hale. I think… I think he's stalking me."
The word hung in the air between them, ugly and stark. Ann had avoided saying it aloud until now, as if naming the fear would make it more real, more dangerous.
Miriam's fingers stilled mid-fold. "What makes you think that?"
Ann recounted everything—the traffic stop the morning after their first meeting, his daily arrivals at precisely 1:15, the patrol cars that seemed to shadow her movements, the feeling of being watched in her own apartment. With each detail, her voice grew steadier, more certain, even as her hands resumed their trembling.
"And last night," Ann continued, leaning closer, "A neighbor told me she's seen patrol car number 37 parked outside my apartment complex several evenings this week. Just watching."
"Really?" Miriam frowned.
"Yeah, this neighbor—Rosa Alvarez—is always watching everything. She keeps track of unusual activity in the neighborhood. Has for years." Ann swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "And Chef Cho—she believes me too. She said her ex-husband was a cop who did the same thing to her after they separated."
Miriam set down her napkin, reaching across to squeeze Ann's wrist. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? This is serious, Ann."
"I thought I was being paranoid." Ann looked down at her half-folded napkin, now crumpled from her grip. "Everyone keeps saying how charming he is, how he must just have a crush on me."
"Men," Miriam muttered, rolling her eyes. "Look, you shouldn't have to deal with him today. Let's switch sections."
Ann's head snapped up. "You'd do that?"
"Of course I would. He always comes at 1:15, right? You takemy section by the kitchen, and I'll handle his table when he comes in." Miriam stood, smoothing her apron. "Let's check the chart and make it official."
They moved to the staff rotation chart posted near the time clock, Miriam running her finger down the laminated surface to find their assignments. Ann peered over her shoulder, hope flickering for the first time in days.
After changing the assignments, Miriam clapped her on the shoulder. "Section four is as far from your usual tables as possible. Even if he comes in, he won't be anywhere near you."
Relief washed through Ann, loosening the knot between her shoulders. Section four was the smallest, tucked away in the corner farthest from the entrance. If Marcus took his usual table, he'd have to crane his neck to see her. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.
The lunch shift began smoothly. Ann settled into a rhythm with her new tables—an elderly couple who ordered the soup of the day, a mother with two well-behaved children, a businessman engrossed in his laptop. The familiar routine of taking orders, delivering food, and refilling drinks soothed her frayed nerves. By 1:00, she had almost convinced herself that today would be different.
At precisely 1:15, the front door opened.
Ann's head jerked up, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. Marcus Hale stood in the entrance, uniform pristine as always, eyes scanning the restaurant with the practiced assessment of a predator seeking prey. Their gazes locked across the room, and the small bubble of security Ann had built around herself burst instantly.
The hostess approached him with a menu, but he shook his head, gesturing toward Ann's corner. Ann watched in growing horror as the hostess looked confused, checking her seating chart, then leading Marcus across the restaurant—not to his usual table in section two, but directly to an empty four-top in Ann's new section.
"How did he know?" Ann whispered, her pulse pounding in her ears. “He must have specifically asked for my section.”
Marcus took his seat, his eyes never leaving Ann as she stoodfrozen by the service station, notepad clutched so tightly her knuckles whitened. Miriam appeared beside her, face taut with concern.
