"I don't," she said, the words emerging too quickly, too forcefully. "I never—I haven't been following the case at all."
Marcus's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "Must be thinking of someone else, then," he said smoothly. "Memory plays tricks sometimes."
Ann's fingers lost their grip on her order pad. It fell to the floor with a soft slap against the hardwood, pages splaying open. She bentto retrieve it, grateful for the moment to hide her face as her mind raced. Was Marcus deliberately lying to make her seem forgetful? Or worse—had he somehow been listening to private conversations she'd had elsewhere?
When she straightened, Marcus was watching her with that unnervingly steady gaze. "Are you feeling all right, Ann? You seem pale."
The concern in his voice sounded genuine, which made it all the more disturbing. Ann forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile. "Fine. Just busy." She turned to Daniel, desperate to escape. "I'll check back in a few minutes."
She retreated to the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door with more force than necessary. Inside, she pressed her back against the wall, closing her eyes as she fought to steady her breathing. Chef Cho glanced at her from the grill but said nothing, her gaze knowing and sympathetic.
Ann stayed in the kitchen longer than necessary, using the excuse of waiting for an order to avoid returning to the dining room. When she finally emerged, Marcus was gone, his table empty except for his coffee cup and a twenty-dollar bill tucked beneath it. Relief flooded through her so powerfully that her knees nearly buckled.
She finished her shift in a daze, moving between tables with mechanical efficiency while her mind circled endlessly around Marcus's strange outbursts. The Westbrook case. Her tires needing rotating. Her new section assignment. None of these were coincidences. None could be explained away.
As her last table cleared, Ann found herself standing outside Tom's office, hand raised to knock before she'd consciously decided to seek him out. Her knuckles rapped against the wood before she could reconsider.
"Come in," Tom's gruff voice called.
She pushed open the door to find him behind his cluttered desk, surrounded by the sports memorabilia that covered every wall—signed baseball bats, framed jerseys, team pennants from gamesattended decades ago. Tom looked up from his paperwork, reading glasses perched low on his nose.
"Porter. What's up?"
Ann closed the door behind her, fingers twisting in her apron. "I need to talk to you about a customer."
Tom leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking in protest. "The elderly couple at table nine? I already comped their dessert after that mix-up with their order."
"No, it's—" Ann took a deep breath, steadying herself. "It's about Officer Hale. The police officer who comes in at 1:15 every day."
"Marcus? Good tipper, from what I hear." Tom removed his glasses, setting them on a stack of invoices. "Problem with his order?"
"No, it's more personal than that." Ann's words tumbled out in a rush. "He's been following me. He knows things about me he shouldn't know. Today, he mentioned that my tires need to be rotated. And he tried to make Daniel Reed think I'd discussed the Westbrook case with him, but I never did. And somehow, he knew I'd been moved to section four, even though that change wasn't posted anywhere."
She paused, breathless, hands shaking visibly now. Tom's expression had shifted from mild interest to something closer to concern, though not the kind she'd hoped for.
"Porter," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "sounds to me like you're reading too much into things."
"I'm not," Ann insisted. "Chef Cho believes me. And my neighbor—she's seen his patrol car watching our apartment building."
Tom sighed, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw. "People see conspiracy theories everywhere." He leaned forward. "Look, Ann, the guy's obviously sweet on you. Police officers notice details—it's literally their job. He probably saw your tires needed rotation when passing your car, maybe for your safety? The section thing was just a coincidence."
"It wasn't a coincidence," Ann said, her voice rising slightly. "None of this is a coincidence."
“Then he probably just asked to be seated in your section because he likes you.”
“I don’t think?—"
"Hey, most women would be flattered by this kind of attention from a good-looking officer of the law." Tom's tone had taken on a paternal quality that made Ann's skin crawl. "If you're not interested, just let him down easy. But don't go making accusations about a respected member of the police force based on what might just be him showing interest awkwardly."
Ann stared at him, the full weight of her isolation crashing down on her. Tom didn't believe her. He wouldn't help her. His dismissive wave as he reached for his glasses again made it clear the conversation was over.
"That'll be all, Porter. I've got inventory to finish."
She left his office with wooden steps, shoulders slumped in defeat. The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt somehow final, like a cell door being locked. Tom's words echoed in her mind: "Most women would be flattered." The implication stung: that her fear was an overreaction, that she should be grateful for Marcus's attention rather than terrified by it.
No one who could actually help her would believe her. Ann was on her own.
The employee door creaked open as Ann stepped outside for her break, the mid-afternoon sun temporarily blinding her after hours under the restaurant's artificial lighting. She hugged her arms against her chest despite the mild spring temperature, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather seeping into her bones. The alley behind Granger's was empty except for stacked produce crates and the large dumpster whose perpetual sour smell mingled with cooking aromas from the kitchen vent. Ann leaned against the brick wall, closing her eyes briefly as she drew a deep breath of outside air—her first moment alone since Marcus's unsettling comments about the Westbrook case.
