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“No, you don’t.”

She stares at me.

I stare back.

“Medium black,” she says finally.

“Thank you.”

I pay in cash, tip well, and wait until the other customer leaves. “Busy morning?”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you making conversation?”

“No.”

“Then what are you making?”

“An inquiry.”

“Worse.”

I almost like her.

“I’m looking into Maggie Sterling,” I say.

Everything about her changes by half a degree. “Why?”

“Because she’s missing.”

“I know that.”

“Then you know why.”

She wipes the counter with more attention than necessary. “Tom already asked around.”

“When?”

“Couple days ago.”

“What did he ask?”

She makes a face. “If anybody saw her. If she came in. If she was acting weird.”

“Was she?”

The barista looks toward the window, then back at me. “She came in here sometimes with her kid. Cute little girl. Quiet. Maggie always seemed… tense.”

“Tense how?”

“Like someone who knows the floor might drop out from under her any moment.”

I put a five on the counter. Not payment. Permission. Some people need an object to make the transaction feel clear.

She doesn’t touch it.

“She ever mention leaving?” I ask.

“No.”