The Devil’s Alibi

Chapter 1

LILA

"Yo, Lila." Mick's voice cuts through my pathetic anticipation. "I'm heading out."

I look up from wiping down the counter. The manager's son leans against the doorframe to the back office. He’s twenty-seven years old and already looks forty, courtesy of whatever he smokes on his breaks.

"Your shift doesn't end until five."

"Yeah, well, Tanner's having a party. Got girls coming and everything."

"You can't leave me here alone."

He laughs. "What, you scared? Come on, you love this shit. All alone with the drunks and the dockworkers. Bet you make good tips letting them stare at your ass."

"That's not—"

"Besides," he continues, already grabbing his jacket. "Who's gonna tell? You? Like my dad's gonna believe some nobody waitress over his son."

Fuck. He's right. He's an asshole, but he's right, and I need this job. Even if it means dealing with Mick's bullshit and serving coffee to people who smell like fish guts and motor oil at ungodly hours.

"Whatever. Leave. I hope you get herpes."

"Already got it, baby." He winks, and I want to throw the coffee pot at his head. "Have fun with your boyfriend."

"He's not my—"

But Mick's already gone, the bell chiming his exit.

Now it's just me, the hissing coffee maker, and the fluorescent lights humming their lonely tune.

The diner feels bigger, all the empty booths stretching out like accusations. “Look at you,” they say. “Twenty-six years old, and this is your Friday night. Pathetic.”

Or is it Thursday? The night shifts blur together like watercolors in the rain.

But then I remember—he'll be here soon. My mysterious 3 a.m. regular with the expensive watch and eyes like Lake Michigan in winter, all cold blue depth that might drown you if you stare too long.

I check the clock above the grill: 2:52.

Eight minutes.

I grab my sketchbook from under the register, flipping to the page I started last week. It's him, or my attempt at him. I can never quite capture the way he holds himself—like he owns the air around him but couldn't care less about it.

The drawing shows a man in shadows, with a sharp jaw and dark hair that's almost black. But the eyes are wrong. They're always wrong. I've tried a dozen times to get his particular shade of blue right, but graphite can't capture how it shifts from ice to ocean depending on the light.

The pencil moves across the paper, muscle memory taking over and adding details I've memorized.

The way his suit jacket pulls slightly at the shoulders—custom-tailored but built for someone who moves, who needs room to.

.. what? Run? Fight? The barely visible scar through his left eyebrow that always makes me wonder about bar fights or worse.

2:56.

My heart starts its all-too-familiar yet embarrassing pre-show warm-up. I'm a grown woman. I've dated guys, I've had relationships—okay, two relationships and a regrettable hookup—and here I am crushing on a stranger who doesn't even know my name.

Does he know my name? I wear a name tag with “Lila” in fading letters that used to be red but are now more of a sad pink. But knowing and caring are different things.

2:58.

The air’s different. Charged. Invigorating.

Or maybe that's just me being ridiculous.

I smooth my uniform—a hideous pink polyester dress that Dave insists gives the place "character." My hair's in a messy, dirty blonde bun because who cares at 3 a.m., but now I'm second-guessing it. Should I take it down and fluff some life into it? No, that's trying too hard.

2:59.

The pencil trembles slightly in my hand as I add shadows to his cheekbones. In my romance novels, this is the part where the dangerous stranger notices the innocent heroine. Where he sees past her mundane exterior to the fire within. Where the connection finally, finally happens.

The bell chimes.

I don’t look up at first.

Play it cool, Lila.

He’s just a regular customer.

Never mind that my pulse has doubled. Never mind that I can already smell his cologne—that incredibly expensive cologne, threading through the fried-food fog—understated but impossible to miss, rich enough to make my head spin.

He slides into his usual booth—third from the door, back to the wall, clear view of all exits. I noticed that on his sixth visit. It's the kind of thing someone does when they're used to watching for trouble. Or when they’re the trouble.

I grab the coffee pot, already full of the fresh batch I made just for him. My hands are steady as I walk over, but my mind is racing through potential conversation starters.

The weather? Coffee? No and no. That type of small talk doesn’t fit him. But what do you say to someone who looks like they stepped out of a crime thriller and into your pathetic little diner?

"Long night? The words escape before I can stop them.

Ugh. I might as well ask if he likes breathing air.

"Something like that." Amusement hints in his words, those ocean-blue eyes lifting to meet mine. My stomach flips like I'm sixteen again. He doesn't look away, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

He breaks the spell with his usual order. "Black coffee.” His voice is like whiskey poured over broken stone as he glances down at his phone.

Of course. Back to business.

"Coming right up," I say, despite literally holding the pot.

I pour, and the smell mingles with his cologne. This close, I can see the fine lines around his eyes. Late thirties, maybe forty. There's a weariness there, but also a sharp, alert edge. Dangerous.

He looks up again. "You?"

"Oh, you know. Living the dream. Serving coffee to insomniacs and watching my coworker bail for a warehouse party."

"A bit late for a party."

"Oh. Yeah, well, Mick doesn't really hang out with the most normal people."

A change ripples through his eyes. Curious. The blue shifts from winter lake to summer ocean, just for a second, before settling back to that careful neutrality.

Silence stretches between us. He sips his coffee—black, no sugar, no cream, no little rituals or preferences beyond the caffeine itself. I stand here like an idiot with the pot, feeling the weight of it pulling at my shoulder.

I should walk away. Go back to the counter. Count the sugar packets or clean the already-clean tables. But my mouth, the traitor, opens again.

"The local gang—Mick usually has some stuff with them, is all."

His eyebrows raise slightly. Just a fraction. Enough that I notice because I've been cataloging his expressions for three months like a borderline stalker.

The words linger in the air, and I suddenly realize what I've done.

Shit. What am I doing? Trying to impress him with my knowledge of the local thugs?

Oh yes, mysterious hot stranger who probably has a gun, let me tell you about the criminal elements in our neighborhood.

I'm sure you, in your thousand-dollar suit, are super interested in which small-time dealers Mick buys his coke from.

Fuck.

The silence becomes unbearable. It’s the awful kind of quiet that makes you aware of every sound—the coffee maker's death rattle, the fluorescent light's buzz, my own breathing that's suddenly too loud.

"I'll be at the counter," I manage, the words coming out rushed and awkward.

I retreat, feeling like I'm walking through water. Don't trip. Don't spill the coffee. Don't look back to see if he's watching.

Yeah right. He's not watching. Why would he be watching?

Back at my station, I feel more awkward than ever. The counter is safe, familiar. There's a groove worn in the floor where I stand, probably decades of night shift waitresses wearing away the linoleum one shuffle at a time.

The clock shows 3:02.

Eight minutes to go. Usually, he stays for ten, sometimes eleven if he's feeling generous. Ten minutes of him sitting, nursing that single cup of coffee, and me standing here, both existing in the same space but different worlds entirely.

I need to say something. Not waste the time like yesterday, when I stood here drawing, and he left without a word.

Or the day before, when I asked if he wanted a refill, and he shook his head.

And the entire week before that, when I managed nothing beyond "coffee" and "here's your change," even though he never wants change.

I run through conversation ideas, each one worse than the last. Nothing interesting happened in my day.

Let's see: I woke up at 2 p.m. to my upstairs neighbor having sex.

Had cereal for breakfast. Watched three episodes of a show about people buying houses I'll never afford.

Got yelled at by a customer for the eggs being too runny, even though I don't even cook the eggs.

Riveting stuff. I'm sure he'd be fascinated.

His name.

The thought hits me. I don't even know his name. Three months of drawing him, thinking about him, constructing elaborate fantasies where he notices me—really notices me—and I don't know the most basic thing.

I should ask. It's a normal question. People ask names all the time. "What's your name?" Simple. Direct. Normal human interaction.

But what if he doesn't want to tell me? What if he likes being mysterious? God, I'm overthinking this. The minutes are ticking by. They always do. That's the thing about ten-minute windows—they're never enough.

Before I know it, my hand is moving across the sketchbook, scribbling random patterns in the margins. Spirals and crosshatches and the shape of his hands that I've drawn so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed.

It's a nervous habit now. When I can't figure out what to say or do, I draw.

His face has become almost as natural as breathing.

The angle of his jaw. The way his hair falls across his forehead when he looks down at his phone, which he does a lot, probably texting other mysterious people about mysterious things.

The hollow of his throat where his collar stays unbuttoned, just that one button, like he started to loosen his tie and then forgot or didn't care.

I glance at the clock. 3:06.

Wait.

What?