Page 81 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

But I eventually manage to get a few more hours of sleep before my alarm screeches through my questionable dreams, forcing me back to the world of the living against my will to get ready for my next shift at the diner.

“You can’t quit your job,” I mutter as I tug open the back door that leads to the kitchen. “You cannot quit your job.” But it’s harder to convince myself of that when all I want to do is take a nap on the counter. Mom doesn’t charge me rent, no matter how many times I’ve offered to pay it, and even though I chip in for groceries, bills, and streaming services, I always feel like I’m not doing enough.

It’s fine, Winnie, my mom is always quick to tell me while waving off my concerns. This is just a jumping off point until you find your path in life.

Path in life, she says, like I’ll find it on a map. With a degree that’s not that particularly useful and zero ability to keep a relationship going for more than seventy-two hours, my path in life is shaping up to be questionably employed cat lady.

“You can’t quit your job,” I sigh, tossing my keys into my little cubby that’s marked with my name in the back of the diner. Martha can’t let go of a few old-fashioned practices, like cubbies, but I can’t complain. Not when I think it’s adorable and pretty heartfelt that she insists on doing it for everyone, no matter who they are or how long they stay working here.

“I mean, you could.” Jeremy drops his keys in the cubby next to mine with a huff. “No one is stopping you. Unlike me. I can’t quit my job.” He grimaces, freckles standing stark against his skin that looks a little paler today.

“You need to go to the tanning bed,” I observe. “You’re looking a little anemic there, Jer-bear.” He shudders at the nickname an old girlfriend had insisted on using. She may be long gone, but I will never let the nickname die. “And yeah, you’re right. Your mom would end you if you tried to quit.”

“Death is better than Friday night shifts,” Jeremy is quick to reply, turning to look at me sullenly. “How’s your hand, by the way?” He gestures to it, and eyes the new bandage taped to my palm.

“Achey,” I admit, flexing my fingers. “Doesn’t exactly feel great when I wiggle my fingers.” To illustrate my words I curl and uncurl my pinky and ring finger, even though it makes my stitched up palm sting.

“Okay then, maybe don’t?” Jeremy recommends. “Maybe—” He’s cut off when Martha comes out of the back office quickly, her face pale and expression reminding me of someone who’s just seen a plane crash.

Not that I have personally ever met someone who’s seen a plane crashing, or seen one crash myself. Both of us watch as she nearly runs out the back door, phone clutched in her hand.

“What’s wrong with your mom?” I ask, puzzled. I’ve never seen Martha look so shaken, and I’ve watched her sit with a customer with a shattered cup stuck in his leg and burns on his hands.

Jeremy shrugs his bony shoulders just as our cook, a middle-aged veteran called Gio, rounds the corner. “She’s just runnin’ out for a bit,” the older man says in his slow drawl. “Come on, you two. Just because Martha’s not here doesn’t mean the diner isn’t opening.”

His voice is a wake-up call and I grin at him, a little embarrassed at having to be told to do my job. “Sorry, Gio,” I say, and Jeremy echoes the sentiment while Gio just rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

To my surprise, Martha isn’t back by the time we open for breakfast at seven am. Normally, her favorite part of the day is chatting with the regulars that always come in for coffee and a place to read the paper while they gossip. But today, it seems…empty. I note that a few of our regulars also aren’t here, including the woman who helped Martha clean up on Friday when I’d sliced my hand open dramatically.

From what I know of her, she’s one of Martha’s oldest customers by far. And she grew up with the diner owner. I’ve never learned her last name, no matter how many credit card receipts I’ve looked at, but I do know her first name starts with an L.

Or a C.

Maybe an A.

I shrug off the thoughts, figuring it doesn’t matter if I know her name or not, as long as I can continue to get her coffee order right.

When Martha’s car finally pulls back into the parking lot close to noon, it’s followed by a cop car that slides into the parking spot beside her; the car is sleek and newer than most of the others in front of the diner. It’s not uncommon for the local cops to eat here, but this is a state trooper, not even a county cop. Jeremy and I trade looks from across the front of the diner, and the confusion on his face shows me he doesn’t have any idea what’s going on either. We watch, both of us slowing at our tasks as Martha comes in the front way, her face pinched and drawn and tear stains on her cheeks.

“Mom?” Jeremy gravitates toward her as soon as the door opens, concern heavy in his voice. He sets down the tray he’d been carrying to reach for her, as if worried she’s going to fall over at any moment.

The officer comes in a moment later. Sunglasses obscure his eyes, even though the day is a cloudy one. He’s more in shape than half of our town police, with a mouth not made for smiling and brown hair cut in a buzz against his head. He’s the definition of cop, and his picture could be in the dictionary for how cliche he looks.

His boots even shine in the bad light.

“I need both of you to come with me for a few minutes,” Martha tells us quietly, beckoning me over as she does. My heart flips in my chest, though I don’t know why. It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong.

Except lying to the cops about an intruder in my house last night.

“Actually…” The officer looks between Jeremy and me. “I just need to talk to her, ma’am.” He nods in my direction and this time I jerk my chin upward like I need to deny some accusation that he hasn’t made.

The look Martha throws my way is worried, and she hesitates. “You can use my office, if that’s all right,” she says finally, nodding at me to set down the tray I’m still holding. “I’ll take your tables, Winnie.”

“Okay.” I have no idea what’s going on, or why this cop is here. I don’t know what I could’ve done, but my brain keeps going back to Cass being in my house the night before.

Does this officer know? Worse—does he think I’m a killer’s accomplice?

I needed you to know I didn’t kill her. Cassian’s soft voice seems to sound in my ears again, but staring into the cop’s face, my confidence waivers. Somehow, for some reason, I believed him when he was in my room last night.