Chapter 18
THEN:
"You're folding those like they personally offended you," Lena remarked, nudging Ann's shoulder with her own. "That's your fifth crooked one in a row."
Ann set down the misshapen napkin, flexing her fingers. "Sorry. My mind's elsewhere."
"Clearly." Lena's gaze was piercing, assessing. "You've been jumpy all night. Almost dropped that tray of drinks when the kitchen door swung open too fast."
The overhead lights caught in Lena's silver hoop earrings as she turned, creating brief flashes that drew Ann's eyes.
Beyond Lena's shoulder, the entrance to the restaurant remained firmly closed, no one entering or leaving.
Still, Ann couldn't help checking it every few minutes, as if Marcus might materialize despite the hour, despite her schedule change.
"Lena," Ann began, her voice lower than necessary in the half-empty restaurant, "have you ever felt like someone was… watching you? Following you?"
Lena's hands stilled on the napkin she was folding. "Like a creepy customer? We get those sometimes. That businessman who always sits in your section and touches your arm when he orders?"
"No, not like that." Ann shook her head, resuming her folding with renewed determination, though her fingers still betrayed her with their trembling. "Like someone… someone with power. Someone who could know your schedule, your routes, where you live."
"You're being cryptic as hell, girl." Lena set down her napkin and turned fully toward Ann, eyebrows raised in question.
Ann glanced around, ensuring no customers were within earshot. Tom was in his office. Chef Cho was focused on the abbreviated evening menu. The nearest occupied table was a good fifteen feet away, its occupants engrossed in their own conversation.
"That police officer," Ann whispered, the words feeling dangerous even as they left her mouth. "Marcus Hale. The one who's been coming in for lunch."
"Officer Dreamy?" Lena's expression brightened. "Miriam mentioned him. Said he always sits in your section, tips like a dream."
"He comes in at exactly 1:15. Not 1:14, not 1:16. Exactly 1:15." Ann's hands had stopped pretending to fold, the napkin clutched tightly between her fingers. "Every single day. And he just watches me. For exactly forty-five minutes."
Lena's smile faltered slightly. "Maybe he's on a strict schedule? Cops have routines, right?"
"The day after he first came in, he pulled me over on my way to work." Ann's voice had dropped even lower, forcing Lena to lean in to hear her. "Of all the police officers in this city, it was him. He knew my name before I showed him my license."
"Your name tag—"
"No. The way he said it—it was like he'd been waiting for me. Testing me." Ann's eyes darted involuntarily to the entrance again. "And I've been seeing patrol cars. Following routes similar to mine. Parked near places I go."
Lena waved a dismissive hand. "This is a small city, Ann. There are police cars everywhere."
"No, you don't understand." Desperation edged into Ann's voice now. "I've been keeping track. Writing it all down. The patterns, they're too specific to be a coincidence."
"Writing it down?" Lena's tone sharpened with sudden interest. "Like a log?"
Ann nodded, folding another napkin with mechanical precision. "Dates, times, locations. Where he sits, what he orders, how long he stays." She hesitated. "Yesterday I made a turn I never make—just to see. And the patrol car that had been behind me went straight instead. But then when I got home…."
"What happened when you got home?" All traces of dismissal had vanished from Lena's voice.
"There was a different patrol car parked two blocks from my apartment." Ann's hands had begun to tremble again, more violently now. "As if he knew I was testing him, so he switched vehicles."
Lena's expression shifted, her earlier amusement draining away like water down a sink. She reached out, gripping Ann's wrist with surprising strength, her silver bangles clinking softly with the movement.
"My cousin Elisa," Lena began, her tone heavy with significance, "dated a cop in Baltimore three years ago.
Just a couple of dates, nothing serious.
But when she tried to end it, he started showing up everywhere—her work, her gym, the coffee shop she liked.
" Lena's grip tightened. "He said it was his patrol route.
Said it was coincidence. It wasn't. He was totally stalking her. "
Ann felt a chill spread through her chest despite the heat seeping into the service area from the kitchen. "What happened?"
"She found out he was using police resources to track her movements.
Running her plates to see where she'd been.
Getting her phone records." Lena's eyes had hardened.
"He knew things he shouldn't have known.
When she threatened to report him, suddenly, there were traffic tickets.
Parking violations. A neighbor called in a noise complaint that never happened. "
Ann's mouth had gone dry. "Did she report him?"
"Eventually. But it took months, and half the department closed ranks around him at first." Lena released Ann's wrist but kept her voice low. "Some men with badges think they're entitled to whatever—or whoever—they want. The badge just gives them tools most stalkers don't have."
The word hung in the air between them. Stalker. Ann had been circling around it in her mind for days, unwilling to give it substance by saying it aloud. But hearing it in this context, from someone else, made it suddenly, terribly real.
"He's so polite," Ann said, her voice small and uncertain. "Always smiles, always leaves a good tip. Never says anything inappropriate."
"The well-behaved ones are the scariest," Lena countered. "They're the ones who know exactly how far they can push before crossing a line anyone else would notice."
The front door opened, admitting a couple seeking dinner. Ann flinched visibly, her eyes darting to the entrance before she could stop herself. The automatic reaction didn't escape Lena's notice.
"You're scared of him," Lena observed, not a question but a statement.
Ann nodded, unable to deny what was clearly written in her body's instinctive response. "I feel like I'm going crazy. Like maybe I'm seeing patterns that aren't there."
"You're not crazy," Lena said firmly. "And from what you're telling me, those patterns are real." She glanced toward the kitchen, then back at Ann. "Have you told anyone else?"
"No. I mean, Miriam knows he comes in regularly, but she thinks it's… cute. That he has a crush or something." Ann forced herself to resume folding napkins, needing the small task to ground her. "I sound paranoid when I say it out loud."
"You don't sound paranoid to me," Lena said, her voice hard with conviction. "You sound like someone whose instincts are trying to protect her."
Ann swallowed hard, relief at being believed mingling with the terror of having her fears confirmed by someone else. "What do I do?"
"We'll figure this out," Lena promised, squeezing Ann's arm. "For now, just try to act normal. We'll talk more after close."
Ann pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, the relative sanctuary of stainless steel and steam enveloping her like a cocoon.
She leaned against the wall briefly, eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing.
The conversation with Lena had left her feeling exposed, as if her private fears had been written across her face in ink, visible to everyone but herself.
When she opened her eyes, she found Chef Cho watching her from the prep station, hands never pausing in their rhythmic dicing of red peppers, the knife's blade catching the overhead lights in quick, controlled flashes.
"You look like someone just walked over your grave," Chef Cho observed, her tone matter-of-fact rather than sympathetic. She swept the diced peppers aside with the flat of her knife and reached for an onion, peeling it with efficient movements.
"I'm fine," Ann said automatically, the denial worn smooth from repetition throughout the evening.
Chef Cho snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive. "And I'm Julia Child." She began slicing the onion into perfect, translucent half-moons, each cut precise and measured. "Table seven's order will be up in two minutes. You might want to fix your face before you deliver it."
Ann moved to the sink, splashing cold water on her wrists the way her mother had taught her to do when anxiety threatened to overwhelm her.
The kitchen's familiar sounds surrounded her—the sizzle of the grill, the rhythmic chopping of Chef Cho's knife, the low hum of the industrial dishwasher.
Normally, these sounds grounded her, but tonight they seemed distant, as if she were hearing them through water.
"It's that police officer," Ann said suddenly, the words escaping before she could reconsider. "Marcus Hale."
Chef Cho's knife paused mid-slice, hovering above the cutting board for a beat before resuming its work. "The one who sits in your section. Punctual as a German train."
Ann nodded, surprised that Chef Cho had noticed from her position in the kitchen. "Yes."
"What about him?" Chef Cho's tone remained neutral, but something in her posture had shifted, a subtle tensing that Ann might not have noticed if she hadn't worked with the woman for three years.
"He's…" Ann hesitated, still struggling to give voice to her suspicions despite the conversation with Lena. "I think he might be following me. Outside the restaurant, I mean."
The knife stilled entirely this time. Chef Cho set it down deliberately, the blade parallel to the edge of the cutting board, and wiped her hands on her apron. For the first time that evening—perhaps for the first time ever—she gave Ann her complete attention.
"Tell me," she said simply.
Ann found herself recounting the story again—the traffic stop, the precise timing of his visits, the patrol cars that seemed to shadow her movements. As she spoke, Chef Cho's expression remained impassive, but her eyes grew harder, more focused, like polished stones.
Chef Cho was silent for a long moment, her gaze seemingly fixed on the half-prepared vegetables before her. When she finally spoke, her voice carried an edge Ann had never heard before.
"Lena is right. Trust your instincts," she said. "Especially around men in positions of authority."
Ann blinked, surprised by the personal tone from the typically reserved chef. "I thought maybe I was being paranoid."
"That's what they want you to think." Chef Cho picked up her knife again but didn't immediately resume chopping. Instead, she turned it slightly, examining the blade as if seeing something reflected there. "My ex-husband was a police sergeant in San Francisco. Nineteen years ago now."
Ann remained silent, sensing that interrupting would cause Chef Cho to retreat into her professional shell.
"When I filed for divorce, he didn't take it well.
" Chef Cho's voice remained even, matter-of-fact, as if discussing a recipe rather than a personal trauma.
“Suddenly, patrol cars were driving past the restaurant where I worked.
Officers I'd never met would come in, sit at the bar, and watch me while they nursed a single drink. "
The knife moved again, resuming its rhythmic work on the onions. Chop. Chop. Chop. The sound punctuated her words like a metronome.
"When I confronted him, he always had an excuse. He was 'just checking on me' or 'happened to be in the neighborhood.'" Chef Cho's mouth tightened. "Then he started showing up at my apartment. At the grocery store. At my sister's house, when I visited her."
Ann leaned against the counter, her legs suddenly feeling too weak to support her weight. Each detail of Chef Cho's story aligned with her own experience, each parallel reinforcing the cold fear that had taken root in her chest.
"How did it end?" she asked, dreading the answer yet needing to hear it.
"I documented everything. Dates, times, places, witnesses.
" Chef Cho's knife continued its steady rhythm, the blade glinting under the harsh kitchen lights.
"I went to his superior officer with my evidence.
Then to that officer's superior when nothing happened.
Then to the police commissioner. Then to a lawyer. "
Ann's breathing had become shallow again, her chest tight. "Did it work?"
"Eventually." Chef Cho swept the chopped onions into a waiting pan, the sizzle and aroma filling the immediate area. "But patterns don't lie, Ann. When someone shows you who they are through consistent behavior, believe them the first time."
The kitchen's sounds seemed to grow louder around them—the scrape of spatulas, the clatter of plates, the hiss of steam. The ordinary cacophony of restaurant work continued while Ann's world tilted on its axis, reality reshaping itself around the confirmation that her fears were justified.
"I thought I was losing my mind," Ann admitted, her voice small against the kitchen's backdrop. "Seeing connections that weren't there."
"You're not losing your mind." Chef Cho's gaze was steady, unwavering. "You're paying attention. There's a difference."
She turned back to the grill, flipping a piece of fish with practiced ease. The conversation seemed to be over, Chef Cho retreated into her professional persona. But then she reached for a plate, arranged the fish on a bed of vegetables with artistic precision, and slid it toward Ann.
"Table seven," she said, nodding toward the swinging door. Then, her voice dropping slightly, she added, "And Ann? Document everything. Dates, times, places. It matters."
Ann picked up the plate, her hand steadier now despite the fear coursing through her.
As she pushed through the swinging door back into the dining room, her eyes automatically scanned for threats—checking the entrance, the windows, the shadows between tables.
The weight of Marcus's invisible surveillance pressed down on her, but alongside it grew something new—a seed of determination, small but stubborn.
She had already been writing things down, but from now on, she would document everything. She would build her case. She would trust her instincts.
And she would not become another victim whose warnings went unheeded until it was too late.