The first thing Hank Reeves said to Sarah Mitchell that morning was not hello.
It was, “You’re in danger. Pretend I’m your dad.”
The coffee pot stopped above his cup.
Behind Sarah, bacon snapped on the grill. Somebody near the front windows was arguing cheerfully about the weather. Rain ticked against the Riverside Diner’s glass, and an old Fleetwood Mac song played through a ceiling speaker that had buzzed on the same note since November.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had.
Hank sat in booth nine, where he had sat every morning since Monday. Black coffee. Two eggs over medium. Wheat toast he pushed around his plate without eating. He wore a gray thermal shirt beneath a leather vest, and there was silver in the dark beard along his jaw. His hands were broad enough to make the coffee cup look like a child’s toy.
On Monday, Sarah had thought he was passing through Portland.
On Tuesday, she had noticed he watched the entrance whenever the bell rang.
On Wednesday, he had asked whether she always worked the opening shift.
She had told him it depended on who needed the hours.
Now it was Thursday, and he knew her name without looking at the plastic badge pinned to her apron.
“Laugh,” he said.
“What?”
“Like I told you something embarrassing.”
She stared at him.
His eyes moved toward the mirror behind the pie display.
“Sarah. Please.”
The please did it.
She laughed, a short, brittle sound that hurt her throat.
Hank smiled back. It was an astonishing transformation. His expression became the expression of an ordinary father having breakfast with a daughter who thought he was ridiculous.
“Get your order pad,” he murmured.
She took it from her apron.
In the mirror, two men stood just inside the entrance.
Neither looked at the chalkboard specials. Neither reached for a menu. Their jackets were dark, their jeans clean, their shoes wrong for the rain. One remained near the register. The other glanced around the room with a patience that frightened Sarah more than a hurried search would have.
He found her reflection.
His right hand settled inside his jacket.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
“Men who’ve been watching you.”
Her fingers tightened around the handle of the pot.
“How long?”
“Four days.”
“That’s how long you’ve been coming here.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been watching me too?”
“Yes.”
She wanted him to deny it. She wanted a misunderstanding she could laugh about later with Jimmy, while they scraped the grill and divided the last piece of pie.
The man left the doorway and started down the aisle.
“In a few seconds,” Hank said, “I’m going to stand up. Roll your eyes. Walk to the kitchen. Don’t run.”
“Why would I go anywhere with you?”
“Because those men got an order this morning.”
“What order?”
Something moved behind his eyes, an old pain briefly finding its way to the surface.
“To finish what they started twenty-four years ago.”
The stranger passed booth four.
Sarah could smell the coffee burning on the warmer behind her.
“What happened twenty-four years ago?”
Hank held her gaze.
“They murdered your father.”
The pot tipped.
Coffee spread over the table in a thin brown sheet, soaking the corner of Hank’s napkin. His hand closed around the glass before it slipped from her fingers.
Her father.
For most of her life, that word had meant an absence with a name attached.
Michael Mitchell left.
That was the whole story. Her mother never added much to it. He learned Diana was pregnant, decided he wasn’t ready, and disappeared. No photographs on the mantel. No birthday cards forwarded from another address. No grandmother on his side who called secretly at Christmas.
Just left.
At twelve, Sarah had studied strangers at bus stops, looking for her own eyebrows, her own crooked little finger, some sign that a man could walk through the world carrying half her face without knowing it.
At seventeen, she had stopped looking.
At twenty-four, she could say she had never needed him and almost make herself believe it.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
“I wish I was.”
The man was three feet away.
Hank’s smile returned.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said loudly. “Your old man needs another cup.”
Sarah’s body seemed to understand what her mind could not.
She rolled her eyes.
“Dad, you’ve already had four.”
The stranger stopped.
It lasted less than a second, but Hank saw it. Sarah did too.