After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a few minutes, Tom nodded once more and turned toward the kitchen. Ann backed away from the window, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain everyone could hear it. Chef Cho squeezed her shoulder briefly before returning to the grill, leaving Ann standing alone, arms wrapped around herself as if holding her body together by force.
The kitchen door swung open, and Tom entered, his expression troubled. His eyes found Ann immediately, noting her position away from the pass-through, her defensive posture.
"Ann," he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Can I speak with you?"
"What did he want?" The question burst from her before she could stop herself.
Tom glanced over his shoulder at the closed kitchen door. "He asked where you were. Said he was concerned when he didn't see you on the floor." He paused, his brow furrowing. "He mentioned something about checking on your welfare after your traffic incident the other day."
Ann's chest tightened, the air suddenly insufficient in the warm kitchen. "Did you tell him I'm here?"
"I said you weren't feeling well and were taking a short break,"Tom replied, studying her face with new intensity. "Ann, he seemed to know an awful lot about your schedule. Asked if you were still planning to close tonight, whether you usually parked in the back lot or the side entrance."
A small sound escaped Ann's throat—not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, but something between the two. "Did he leave?" she managed.
Tom shook his head. "They ordered lunch. He said he'd wait to make sure you're okay before he leaves." He hesitated, then added, "He seems pretty determined to see you."
Ann pressed her back against the cool metal of the prep station, the edge digging into her spine—an anchor point of physical discomfort to distract from the spiraling terror in her mind. Marcus wasn't going to leave. He would wait, watching the kitchen doors, trapping her in the back of the restaurant like a cornered animal.
And he'd brought another officer with him this time—a witness, perhaps. Someone who would see only a concerned colleague checking on a citizen after a traffic incident, not the calculated pursuit that had become Ann's waking nightmare.
Ann pressed herself into the corner of the empty staff room, the hard plastic chair digging uncomfortably into her back as she hunched over her phone. The small space felt like her only sanctuary in the restaurant since Marcus and Officer Ramirez had finally left twenty minutes ago, after lingering over their meal for nearly two hours. She'd remained in the kitchen the entire time, helping Chef Cho prep vegetables, wiping down already clean counters, anything to justify her continued absence from the dining room. Now, during her delayed break, her trembling fingers typed words into her phone's search bar that made her stomach clench: "police officer stalking."
The search results populated her screen instantly—a cascade of links that seemed to pulse with foreboding. "When Your Stalker Wears a Badge." "Police Powers: The Perfect Cover for PredatoryBehavior." "Few Consequences When Cops Stalk, Harass, Threaten Women." Ann's throat tightened as she clicked the first link, scrolling through a detailed article about a Florida woman whose complaints against a police officer were repeatedly dismissed until he broke into her home.
She clicked back and selected another article. This one profiled three separate cases of women stalked by officers who had pulled them over for minor traffic violations—the initial point of contact that had spiraled into months of surveillance, intimidation, and fear. Ann's hands began to shake more violently as she recognized the pattern: traffic stops for infractions that hadn't occurred. Patrol cars driving by homes at odd hours. Officers "coincidentally" appearing at workplaces.
The third article detailed how officers could access driver's license databases, vehicle registrations, and even criminal history systems to gather personal information about their targets. One woman had moved three times, each time finding her stalker had her new address within days. Another had her friends and family members pulled over repeatedly when the officer couldn't locate her directly.
"Jesus," Ann whispered, the word escaping on a shaky exhale as she scrolled further.
The most disturbing section detailed the lack of accountability: police departments investigating their own; officers placed on paid leave, then reinstated. Complaints dismissed for "insufficient evidence." Victims labeled as unstable, attention-seeking, or mentally ill when they persisted in reporting the harassment.
Ann took screenshots of the most relevant sections, creating a new folder on her phone labeled "Research." She added them alongside her growing collection of photos.
The staff room door swung open, and Ann startled violently, nearly dropping her phone. Miriam stood in the doorway, concern etched across her features.
"You okay? Tom's looking for you," she said quietly.
Ann nodded, locking her phone screen with trembling fingers. "Did he say what he wants?"
"Just that he needs to speak with you before you clock out." Miriam hesitated. "They're gone, Ann. Both of them left about twenty minutes ago."
"I know." Ann stood, smoothing her apron with hands that wouldn't quite steady. "I saw them leave from the kitchen window."
As Ann made her way back to the dining room, the knot in her stomach tightened with each step. Tom stood by the host stand, his brow furrowed as he checked reservations on the computer. He glanced up as she approached, his expression shifting to something between concern and frustration.
"There you are," he said, guiding her to a quiet corner near the entrance, his voice low but firm. "We need to talk about what happened earlier."
Ann hugged her arms across her chest, creating a physical barrier between them. "I couldn't face him, Tom. I just couldn't."
"Marcus specifically asked where you were," Tom said, watching her reaction carefully. "He said he was worried about you after pulling you over. Something about you seeming unusually distressed during the stop."
A bitter laugh escaped Ann's throat before she could stop it. "Of course, I was distressed. He's been following me for weeks. Watching my apartment. Driving past my building at two in the morning." Her voice rose slightly before she caught herself, glancing around to ensure no customers were within earshot.
"Ann—"
"I have proof," she interrupted, fumbling with her phone. She pulled up the photos from the previous night, the timestamp clearly visible in the corner. "This is his patrol car outside my apartment at two a.m. Look at the car number—37. The same one that's been following me. The same one my neighbor saw."
