Chapter 3
The neon sign of Red’s Diner buzzed with a sound like an angry wasp, casting a harsh, flickering pink light over the rain-soaked asphalt of the parking lot. It was 3:15 AM. The graveyard shift.
Inside, the diner smelled of stale fryer grease, bleach, and old coffee. Mave balanced a tray with three plates of meatloaf on her left arm, her right hand gripping a rag. Her uniform — a faded yellow dress with a white apron — clung uncomfortably to her damp skin. Her sneakers squelched faintly against the linoleum with every step.
She dropped the plates off at a booth containing three exhausted sanitation workers, offered a practiced, hollow smile, and turned back toward the counter. Her head pounded. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the empty lock box. The reality of her situation was a physical weight pressing down on her chest.
She had calculated her assets four times during her shift. She had fourteen dollars in her checking account. Maybe forty in tips in her apron pocket. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.
The bell above the heavy glass door chimed, cutting through the low murmur of the diner. Mave didn’t look up immediately. She grabbed a fresh pot of coffee from the warmer.
“Take a seat anywhere, hun. Be right with you,” she called out, her voice raspy from crying earlier.
Gideon stepped into the diner. He paused on the threshold, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him.
He looked entirely out of place. While the diner was populated by people wearing high-vis jackets, trucker hats, and exhaustion, Gideon wore a bespoke suit under a tailored overcoat. The rain beaded on his dark hair. His eyes swept the room in a single practiced motion, categorizing exits, threats, and sightlines before finally landing on the woman behind the counter.
He recognized her immediately. Not her face — but her posture. She moved like someone carrying an invisible boulder on her shoulders.
He walked to the far end of the counter, choosing a stool that put his back to the wall and gave him a clear view of the door. He sat down, unbuttoning his coat.
Mave approached, setting a thick ceramic mug down in front of him. She poured the black coffee without asking.
“Menu?” she asked, finally looking up.
Gideon looked at her. Her eyes were rimmed with red, the skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. Her name tag was pinned slightly crookedly to her apron. *Mave.*
“Just the coffee, Mave.”
Mave froze. The coffee pot in her hand hovered an inch above the mug. The diner was noisy — the clatter of silverware, the hiss of the grill, the low rumble of conversations. But the moment he spoke, all of it faded into background static.
She knew that voice. It was the gravelly, heavy baritone that had offered to end a man’s life just four hours ago.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at him, her eyes wide. He didn’t look like a psychopath. He looked dangerously composed. Handsome in a brutal, sharp-edged sort of way. His dark eyes met hers, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her want to step backward.
“Something wrong?” Gideon asked, his expression unreadable.
He knew she recognized him. She saw the exact moment the realization hit her face.
Mave swallowed hard, forcing her hand to steady as she pulled the coffee pot back. “No,” she lied, her voice trembling slightly. “No, sorry. Long night.”
“They usually are,” Gideon murmured.
He wrapped a large, long-fingered hand around the mug. He didn’t break eye contact.
“You look like you’re carrying the world. You should put it down for a minute.”
Mave let out a short, cynical bark of laughter before she could stop herself. “If I put it down, it crushes me,” she said, scrubbing the counter vigorously with her rag. “Can’t afford to stop.”
“Eight thousand dollars is a heavy burden,” Gideon said quietly.
Mave stopped wiping. The rag slipped from her fingers, dropping onto the floor with a wet smack. The air in her lungs vanished.
She looked around frantically, but none of the other patrons were paying attention to them.
“Who are you?” she whispered, leaning in closer, her fear overridden by a sudden, desperate anger. “Did Ben send you? Is this a joke to him?”
“I don’t know Ben,” Gideon said calmly. He took a sip of the black coffee. It was terrible. He set the mug down. “But from what I gathered, Ben is a coward. Cowards don’t send people like me. They just run.”
“Then why are you here?” she demanded, her voice barely a breath. “How did you find me?”
Gideon didn’t answer the second question. It involved cellular triangulation and resources she couldn’t comprehend. Instead, he looked at her frayed cuffs, the cheap material of her uniform, the utter despair masking her pretty features.
He was a man who traded in blood and extortion. He had no business sitting in a greasy diner playing guardian angel. It offended his practical nature.
Yet he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“I don’t like unfinished business,” Gideon said smoothly. “And I don’t like tears on my private line.”
He placed a thick folded bundle on the counter. He slid it across the laminate surface until it touched the base of the sugar dispenser.
Mave stared at it. It was wrapped in a simple rubber band. It wasn’t ones or twenties. It was a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“What is this?” she asked, her voice shaking so badly she could barely form the words.
May you like
“Restitution,” Gideon said. He stood up, buttoning his overcoat with calm precision. “Pay your landlord. Take care of your sister.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
