Chapter 1 - THE TENSION IN BELLE'S DINER
Tuesday at 2:14 a.m. smelled like burnt filter coffee and heavy-duty bleach.
Alina stood behind the counter of Belle’s Diner, a rag in her right hand, staring at the fluorescent lights reflecting off the scratched Formica. Her feet ached—a dull, persistent throbbing that had moved from her arches up into her calves hours ago. Outside, rain lashed against the large plate-glass windows, distorting the neon signs across the street.
There were only two other people in the diner.
Old man Henderson was asleep in the third booth, leaving his scrambled eggs to get cold. Alina let him sleep; the heating in his building was broken again.
Then there was the man in the corner booth.
Alina didn't know his name, but she knew his routine: black coffee, no sugar, and a slice of cherry pie he rarely touched. He came in every Tuesday and Thursday. He was completely out of place in a diner held together by duct tape and hope. The man wore tailored dark wool suits that cost more than her annual rent, his silk tie pulled slightly loose. He sat quietly, his dark eyes taking in the street, the counter, and her. Not in a creepy way, but with steady, unblinking awareness.
Alina wiped the counter for the fourth time. Just four more hours, she thought. Four hours until I can take the rattling subway home.
The brass bell above the front door violently jingled.
A heavy man slouched in. He was built like a cinder block, wearing a rain-soaked faux-leather jacket. His eyes were bloodshot, swimming in the fog of cheap liquor. He brought a sharp, sour stench of sweat and stale beer that immediately overpowered the bleach.
He didn't close the door behind him. Freezing wind whipped into the diner. Alina walked over, pulled the heavy glass door shut with a loud latch click, and put on her practiced customer service face.
"Welcome to Belle’s. Sit anywhere you like."
"Hey, sweetheart," the man barked, walking straight to the counter and slamming down on a stool. "Get me a coffee and something fried. Don't care what."
Alina filled a thick ceramic mug with hot coffee and set it down. "Menus are right there. Let me know when you're ready."
The man—Carl, according to the faded blue patch stitched onto his shirt—ignored the menu. His bloodshot eyes tracked up and down her shapeless yellow uniform. "You look tired, sweetheart. Pretty girl like you shouldn't be working the graveyard shift. Should have someone taking care of you."
Alina felt a familiar spike of anxiety. She turned her back to wipe down the unused espresso machine. "I prefer the quiet. Keeps the headache away."
Carl pulled a dented silver flask from his jacket and poured a heavy glug of whiskey into the steaming coffee.
"Sir," Alina said, turning around firmly, "you can't drink outside liquor in here. It’s against state law."
Carl paused, hovering the flask over the mug. "State law? You a cop, sweetheart? 'Cause you look like a glorified maid to me."
"I'll get you a fresh coffee, but you need to put that away." She reached for the mug.
"Don't touch my damn cup!" Carl snapped. His heavy hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, his thick fingers digging into her delicate bones.
Alina gasped, pulling back against his grip. "Let go of me."
"I'm paying for a service!" Carl growled, his face turning a mottled, angry red. "I want to sit here, drink my drink, and I want you to smile while I do it!"
"I said let go!" Alina jerked her arm hard. Her sudden movement caught him off guard, but in his drunken reflex, his hand slammed into the ceramic mug.
The mug tipped. Scalding liquid—a bitter mixture of whiskey and boiling coffee—arced through the air, hitting Alina square in the chest.
The heat seared through her thin cotton uniform, burning her collarbone and ribs. She stumbled back against the prep table as the mug hit the linoleum floor and shattered.
Alina stood frozen, her skin throbbing beneath the ugly brown stain spreading across her chest. Humiliation burned worse than the coffee.
Carl looked at the mess, then let out a cruel, slurred laugh. "Look what you made me do. Clumsy bitch. Now you gotta clean that up, too."
"Get out," Alina whispered, her hands trembling.
"What was that?" Carl mocked, cupping a hand to his ear. "Speak up, sweetheart."
"Get out of my diner!" Alina yelled, her anger finally breaking through her shock.
Carl stood up, his massive frame blocking the overhead light. "You don't tell me what to do. I ain't leaving until I get an apology for my spilled drink." He reached his thick hand across the counter, aiming for her collar. "Now come here—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
May you like
The temperature in the diner seemed to plummet. Alina looked past Carl’s heavy shoulder.
In the corner booth, the quiet man in the bespoke suit was no longer sitting. He was standing, adjusting his cuffs, walking slowly toward the counter.
