Lena hesitated, clearly sensing the charged atmosphere. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," Ann said automatically, the lie worn smooth from repetition. "Just showing Miriam some photos."
As Lena retreated, Miriam grabbed Ann's wrist, holding her back. "This isn't going away on its own," she said softly. "And I'm worried about what happens next if you don't get help."
Ann nodded, acknowledging the truth in Miriam's words even asfear knotted in her stomach. "I'll talk to Tom after the lunch rush," she promised, though her voice lacked conviction. "I need to get to my tables."
She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her apron, summoning the professional mask she'd perfected over years of service work. But as she pushed through the door into the dining room, her eyes automatically swept the entrance, the windows, the parking lot beyond—scanning for a white and blue patrol car, for the man whose surveillance had transformed her life into an unending nightmare.
Ann balanced the water pitcher with both hands as she refilled glasses for the elderly couple seated by the window. The afternoon sun streamed through the glass, warming her back as she bent over the table, smiling mechanically at the woman's comment about thewonderful weather we’re having. She'd managed to maintain a veneer of normalcy for the first half of her shift, though each jingle of the bell above the entrance door sent a jolt of electricity up her spine, her body constantly braced for the moment she dreaded. When it finally came—the distinctive sound of the door swinging open with more force than necessary—she didn't need to turn to know. Something in the sudden stillness of the restaurant, the shift in air pressure, told her exactly who had entered.
Ann's hands froze mid-pour, water hovering just above the rim of the glass. Through the window's reflection, she caught a glimpse of crisp blue uniforms—not one but two. Marcus had brought backup.
"Is everything alright, dear?" the elderly woman asked, noticing Ann's sudden rigidity.
Ann's grip on the pitcher slipped, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. She steadied it with a jerky movement, spilling a few drops onto the tablecloth.
"I'm so sorry," she managed, the words barely audible as her throat constricted. "I'll bring some extra napkins."
She turned, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor, but peripheral vision betrayed her—Marcus stood at the hostess stand with another officer. Officer Ramirez, she saw on her name tag. Marcus's head was already turning, scanning the restaurant with deliberate thoroughness until his eyes locked onto her position by the window. The slight curve of his lips wasn't quite a smile, but a recognition, an acknowledgment of prey spotted.
The pitcher threatened to slip from Ann's suddenly numb fingers. She clutched it against her chest, pivoted sharply, and walked with measured steps toward the kitchen. Not running. Running would attract attention, would confirm her fear. But every instinct screamed at her to flee, to escape those eyes that tracked her movement across the dining room floor.
Ann pushed through the swinging kitchen doors with her shoulder, the familiar sounds of the kitchen—the sizzle of the grill, the clatter of plates, Chef Cho's precise instructions to the line cook—enveloping her like a protective cocoon. She set the water pitcher down with trembling hands, breathing in short, shallow gasps that couldn't quite satisfy her lungs.
"Porter? You look like you've seen a ghost." Chef Cho glanced up from the grill, her knife pausing mid-slice through a red pepper.
"He's here," Ann whispered, the words catching in her dry throat. "Marcus. With another officer."
Chef Cho's expression shifted, understanding immediately. She set down her knife with deliberate care. "In your section?"
"They'll request it." Ann moved toward the chef, desperation evident in her rigid posture. "I can't go out there. Please—can someone cover my tables? Just until they leave?"
Chef Cho wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes narrowing as she moved to the pass-through window, peering discreetly into the dining room. Ann watched her take in the situation—the two officers now being led by the hostess toward a table in Ann's section, Marcus's rigid posture and searching gaze.
"Jake," Chef Cho called to the junior line cook. "Take over the grill."
The young man nodded, sliding into position as Chef Chostepped away. She turned to Ann, her expression resolute. "Stay in the kitchen. I'll tell Miriam to cover your tables." She hesitated, then added, "Use the pass-through window. Watch what happens."
Ann nodded gratefully, positioning herself where she could observe the dining room without being easily spotted from the tables. She kept her body angled away from the direct line of sight, only her eyes and part of her face visible through the narrow opening.
In the dining room, Marcus and Ramirez were being seated at table twelve, directly in her section as she'd predicted. The hostess placed menus before them, her smile professional but tight. Ann watched as Marcus's gaze swept the restaurant again, lingering on the kitchen doors, his expression darkening when minutes passed without Ann's reappearance.
He leaned toward Ramirez, saying something Ann couldn't hear from her position. The other officer nodded, her expression neutral, hands folded on the table in front of her. Unlike Marcus, Ramirez seemed relaxed, as if this were simply a normal lunch break rather than part of whatever game Marcus was playing.
Ann's heart pounded against her ribs as she watched Miriam approach their table, notepad in hand. Miriam's posture was stiff, her professional smile not reaching her eyes as she took their drink orders. When Marcus spoke to her, gesturing toward the kitchen, Miriam's shoulders tensed visibly.
"He's asking about you," Chef Cho murmured, standing close enough to observe without drawing attention to Ann's position. "Miriam's handling it well."
As if on cue, Tom emerged from his office, his eyes immediately finding the officers' table. Ann watched as Miriam gestured subtly toward him, then retreated to the service station. Tom approached Marcus and Ramirez, his broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back—the stance he took when dealing with difficult customers.
The conversation that unfolded was visible only through body language from Ann's limited vantage point. Tom stood stiffly, nodding occasionally at whatever Marcus was saying. Marcus leanedforward in his chair, one hand on the table, fingers splayed—a position of dominance, of claiming space. Officer Ramirez remained mostly silent, her eyes drifting around the restaurant, occasionally settling on the kitchen doors where Ann hid.
"What are they saying?" Ann whispered to Chef Cho, who had moved closer to the window.
"Can't hear from here," Chef Cho replied, her expression grim. "But your officer doesn't look happy."
Ann flinched at the possessive—"your officer"—but couldn't deny the accuracy of Chef Cho's observation. Marcus's posture had grown increasingly rigid, his gestures more clipped as the conversation with Tom continued. Tom's stance remained firm, though Ann noted the slight shifting of his weight from foot to foot—a tell she recognized from when customers complained about the food.
