Page 14 of Shatter

Me.

She keeps her car keys laced between her fingers when she carries the trash out back.

She never tells the same story twice.

Two weeks ago the trucker asked where she was from, and she said Ohio, and a month earlier she told one of the college boys Arizona.

Neither one was true.

Her vowels are too crisp for Ohio and too cold for Arizona.

Somewhere north.

Somewhere with rain.

The FSU kid in the window booth reaches across the table and puts his hand on the back of his girlfriend's neck.

Across the diner, the coffee pot in Katie's hand rattles against the rim of the trucker's mug.

She sets it down too hard.

She tells the trucker it's a long night, and her voice comes out fine, bright, easy.

Her hand is on the back of her own neck, flat and pressing, like she's holding something in.

My fork stops halfway to my mouth.

I've seen women flinch.

I've seen my mother flinch at a car door slamming in the street and at my father's boots on the stairs.

This isn't a flinch.

This is somebody putting pressure on a wound.

When she brings my plate out, I look at her face.

I shouldn't.

It isn't mine to look at.

But her green eyes are wet at the rims, and a flush is crawling up her throat.

She sees me see it.

Her chin comes up half an inch, a dare, like she's daring me to ask.

I don't.

I pick up my fork, say thank you, eat, and let her walk away.

Around one-thirty, a dark sedan rolls into the lot and parks at the far end, nose out, facing the road.

Nobody gets out.

I watch it through the window over the rim of my coffee cup.

Engine off, lights off.