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I place my fists on my hips and scan the interior of the diner. It’s empty, the street outside dark except for the vignettes of light cast by the lampposts.
If I close my eyes, I imagine my father in the kitchen, cleaning up after a long day. Tears build up, and I let out a shaky breath.
Grief is an asshole. Just when I think I’m managing, it rears its ugly head.
I grab a broom and start sweeping to keep my hands busy while I think. I need to inject some interest and excitement intothis business. I’ve failed at plenty of stuff in my life, but failing at running my father’s diner isn’t going to be one of them.
My phone rings on the counter, and I grab it, tucking the broomstick against my side.
I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello, you’ve reached the Heatstroke Mortuary. How may I help you?”
I hate unknown numbers. If I wanted you to call me, I’d give you my number. Period.
“Marci.” I don’t recognize the caller’s voice. “Marci Walsh.”
“Who’s this?”
I pin the phone to my ear using my shoulder and shift the broom out from under my arm.
“Miss Walsh, you and I need to talk about that diner of yours.”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Is this some weird new tactic insurance companies are employing?”
Or a hyper-realistic robot call?
“Your brother owes me money.”
My stomach sinks.
Fuck balls.
“And you are?”
“That’s not important,” the guy says, his voice thick and raspy. “What matters is that you come up with the money. Fifty grand in two months. Got it?”
“You’re out of your mind,” I say. “How the hell do you expect anyone to come up with that kind of money on short notice?”
“You’ve got an asset, don’t you?” he asks. “You’ll come up with the money. And if you don’t?—”
The line goes dead, and I pull the phone away from my ear, my pulse ratcheting upward.
An ear-splitting crash sends me careening back into the counter. I drop my phone and the broom, spinning toward thefront of the Heartstopper. The window bearing our logo, the hamburger dripping with fixings, and wearing a cute smile is broken. A half brick rests on a table near the front.
Tires squeal outside, and a black car with tinted windows zips past.
“Hey! Hey, you asshole!” I yell, but they’re already gone, and I’m shaking like a leaf.
I can’t believe that happened.
The diner. My father. The money.
I can’t breathe. I try to suck in a breath, but the linoleum is speckled gray. I grab hold of a stool closest to me and sink down.
The diner door opens, and a man enters. I push myself backward, fear clawing at my throat, and?—
“It’s me. Angel, it’s me.”
