Page 43 of Shatter

He doesn't try again.

My eyes sting, hot and sudden, and I have to look down at the gravel.

"Your friend here said you got jumped in the lot." Dale's eyes flick to Hakon, wary, then back to me. "After close. Said you were hurt bad but you'd be okay, and staying with some people who'd look after you."

"I'm okay, Dale." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I promise."

"You don't look okay." His eyes don't leave my face.

"I'm not dead." I try to smile, and my lip pulls at the scab. "It's a start."

He doesn't laugh.

He looks at me for a long time, his jaw working under his gray stubble, and his eyes go hard.

"Somebody came in yesterday." He keeps his voice low. "Lunch rush. Nice suit, nice haircut. Sat at the counter and ordered coffee he didn't drink, and asked if Katie was working."

The ground goes soft under my feet.

"What did you tell him?" My fingers curl up inside the long sleeves.

"Told him I got a lot of Katies." Dale's mouth tightens. "Said you were his cousin, and your family's worried sick. Said he'd come back."

I don't have a cousin.

Not one who'd come looking.

Behind me, Hakon's breath goes slow and deliberate, in through his nose and out through his mouth, like a man counting.

"Did he leave a name?" Hakon's voice stays even.

"No." Dale looks at him directly for the first time. "He didn't leave a tip, either. And I didn't like the way he looked at my back door."

He digs in his windbreaker and pulls out a white envelope, creased down the middle.

"Your check came Friday." He holds it out at arm's length, careful not to come any closer. "Tip jar's in there, too. The regulars have been asking."

I stare at it.

Forty-some hours ago, fifty-two dollars in an apron pocket was everything I had in the world.

"Take it, Katie." His voice goes gruff. "You earned every penny."

My fingers shake when they close around the paper, and it's thicker than it should be.

I don't let myself look inside.

He pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocks the deadbolt.

"Whatever you need in there, get it." He pushes the door open. "I'll be in the office. I don't need to see anything."

The kitchen is dark, warm, and smells exactly the way it always does.

Old fryer oil and burnt coffee.

For seven months, I rolled silverware at the prep table with my back to the wall and my shoulders finally loose.

My feet find their way across the tile without me thinking about it, past the flat-top and the hook where my apron should be hanging.