Chapter 22 #2
Ann's head snapped toward Marcus, her body going cold despite the restaurant's warmth. He was watching her with that same steady gaze, coffee cup held midway to his lips, as if his interjection into a private conversation was perfectly natural.
"I—what?" Ann managed, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.
"The Westbrook case," Marcus continued, setting down his cup. "You said Tuesday that you thought someone was setting Westbrook up. That the evidence seemed too perfect." His smile was pleasant, conversational. "You have a good eye for inconsistencies."
The blood drained from Ann's face so rapidly she felt lightheaded.
She had never discussed the Westbrook case with anyone at the restaurant and never shared an opinion about it, certainly not with Marcus.
She'd barely registered the headlines, too consumed with her own situation to follow local news.
Daniel looked between them, confusion evident in his furrowed brow. "I didn't realize you followed legal cases so closely, Ann."
"I don't," she said, the words emerging too quickly, too forcefully. "I never—I haven't been following the case at all."
Marcus's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. "Must be thinking of someone else, then," he said smoothly. "Memory plays tricks sometimes."
Ann's fingers lost their grip on her order pad.
It fell to the floor with a soft slap against the hardwood, pages splaying open.
She bent to retrieve it, grateful for the moment to hide her face as her mind raced.
Was Marcus deliberately lying to make her seem forgetful?
Or worse—had he somehow been listening to private conversations she'd had elsewhere?
When she straightened, Marcus was watching her with that unnervingly steady gaze. "Are you feeling all right, Ann? You seem pale."
The concern in his voice sounded genuine, which made it all the more disturbing. Ann forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile. "Fine. Just busy." She turned to Daniel, desperate to escape. "I'll check back in a few minutes."
She retreated to the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door with more force than necessary. Inside, she pressed her back against the wall, closing her eyes as she fought to steady her breathing. Chef Cho glanced at her from the grill but said nothing, her gaze knowing and sympathetic.
Ann stayed in the kitchen longer than necessary, using the excuse of waiting for an order to avoid returning to the dining room.
When she finally emerged, Marcus was gone, his table empty except for his coffee cup and a twenty-dollar bill tucked beneath it.
Relief flooded through her so powerfully that her knees nearly buckled.
She finished her shift in a daze, moving between tables with mechanical efficiency while her mind circled endlessly around Marcus's strange outbursts. The Westbrook case. Her tires needing rotating. Her new section assignment. None of these were coincidences. None could be explained away.
As her last table cleared, Ann found herself standing outside Tom's office, hand raised to knock before she'd consciously decided to seek him out. Her knuckles rapped against the wood before she could reconsider.
"Come in," Tom's gruff voice called.
She pushed open the door to find him behind his cluttered desk, surrounded by the sports memorabilia that covered every wall—signed baseball bats, framed jerseys, team pennants from games attended decades ago. Tom looked up from his paperwork, reading glasses perched low on his nose.
"Porter. What's up?"
Ann closed the door behind her, fingers twisting in her apron. "I need to talk to you about a customer."
Tom leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking in protest. "The elderly couple at table nine? I already comped their dessert after that mix-up with their order."
"No, it's—" Ann took a deep breath, steadying herself. "It's about Officer Hale. The police officer who comes in at 1:15 every day."
"Marcus? Good tipper, from what I hear." Tom removed his glasses, setting them on a stack of invoices. "Problem with his order?"
"No, it's more personal than that." Ann's words tumbled out in a rush.
"He's been following me. He knows things about me he shouldn't know.
Today, he mentioned that my tires need to be rotated.
And he tried to make Daniel Reed think I'd discussed the Westbrook case with him, but I never did.
And somehow, he knew I'd been moved to section four, even though that change wasn't posted anywhere. "
She paused, breathless, hands shaking visibly now. Tom's expression had shifted from mild interest to something closer to concern, though not the kind she'd hoped for.
"Porter," he said, folding his arms across his chest, "sounds to me like you're reading too much into things."
"I'm not," Ann insisted. "Chef Cho believes me. And my neighbor—she's seen his patrol car watching our apartment building."
Tom sighed, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw.
"People see conspiracy theories everywhere.
" He leaned forward. "Look, Ann, the guy's obviously sweet on you.
Police officers notice details—it's literally their job.
He probably saw your tires needed rotation when passing your car, maybe for your safety?
The section thing was just a coincidence. "
"It wasn't a coincidence," Ann said, her voice rising slightly. "None of this is a coincidence."
“Then he probably just asked to be seated in your section because he likes you.”
“I don’t think—"
"Hey, most women would be flattered by this kind of attention from a good-looking officer of the law.
" Tom's tone had taken on a paternal quality that made Ann's skin crawl.
"If you're not interested, just let him down easy.
But don't go making accusations about a respected member of the police force based on what might just be him showing interest awkwardly. "
Ann stared at him, the full weight of her isolation crashing down on her. Tom didn't believe her. He wouldn't help her. His dismissive wave as he reached for his glasses again made it clear the conversation was over.
"That'll be all, Porter. I've got inventory to finish."
She left his office with wooden steps, shoulders slumped in defeat.
The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt somehow final, like a cell door being locked.
Tom's words echoed in her mind: "Most women would be flattered.
" The implication stung: that her fear was an overreaction, that she should be grateful for Marcus's attention rather than terrified by it.
No one who could actually help her would believe her. Ann was on her own.
The employee door creaked open as Ann stepped outside for her break, the mid-afternoon sun temporarily blinding her after hours under the restaurant's artificial lighting.
She hugged her arms against her chest despite the mild spring temperature, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather seeping into her bones.
The alley behind Granger's was empty except for stacked produce crates and the large dumpster whose perpetual sour smell mingled with cooking aromas from the kitchen vent.
Ann leaned against the brick wall, closing her eyes briefly as she drew a deep breath of outside air—her first moment alone since Marcus's unsettling comments about the Westbrook case.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze automatically swept the alley, then the street beyond—a habit she'd developed lately, this constant vigilance that exhausted her yet felt necessary for survival.
She had almost convinced herself that she was being paranoid when she spotted it: a white and blue patrol car parked across the street, partially obscured by a FedEx delivery truck.
From this angle, she could just make out the number on its door: 37.
The same car her neighbor Rosa had seen watching her apartment.
Ann's pulse quickened as she pushed away from the wall, moving closer to the alley entrance for a better view.
The car's windows were tinted, making it impossible to see who sat behind the wheel, but she knew with bone-deep certainty that it was Marcus.
The small dent on the rear bumper confirmed it was his vehicle.
With trembling fingers, Ann pulled out her phone and snapped several photos, making sure the patrol car's number and the dent were clearly visible. She checked the time: 2:30 p.m.
"Documentation," Ann whispered to herself, adding a note to the photos with the date, time, and location. Chef Cho's words echoed in her mind: Dates, times, places. It matters.
The employee door opened again, and Miriam stepped out, unwrapping a piece of gum.
"God, it's stuffy in there," she said, stretching her arms overhead. "Chef's making that spicy soup again, and the whole place smells like—" She broke off, noticing Ann's rigid posture. "What's wrong?"
Ann pointed across the street. "That patrol car. It's his."
Miriam squinted in the direction Ann indicated. "The one behind the delivery truck? How do you know it's his?"
"The dent on the back bumper. And it's car 37—the same one my neighbor’s seen watching my apartment." Ann held up her phone, showing Miriam the photos she'd taken.
Miriam's expression shifted from skeptical to concerned as she studied the photos. "You're sure?"
As they watched, the patrol car's engine started, its lights remaining off as it pulled smoothly away from the curb. It circled the delivery truck and disappeared down the street without haste, as if it hadn't been caught in the act of surveillance.
"That's… weird," Miriam admitted, her earlier dismissiveness fading. "Did he see us watching him?"
Ann's stomach clenched. "I don't know. Maybe." She checked the photos on her phone again, making sure they were clear. "This isn't a coincidence, Miriam. None of it is."
The remainder of her shift passed in a blur of tension, Ann's attention split between her tables and the windows that looked out onto the street.
Every passing car, every shadow movement outside made her flinch.
By closing time, her shoulders ached from being held rigid for hours, and a persistent headache throbbed behind her eyes.
As the final customers trickled out and the evening staff began their closing routines, Ann wiped down tables with uneven, distracted movements.
Her cloth moved in erratic patterns rather than her usual efficient circles, her eyes darting to the windows every few seconds.
When a car drove past with headlights on high beam, she dropped her spray bottle, the plastic clattering loudly on the wooden floor.
Tom emerged from the office at the noise, his keys jangling at his belt. He paused, watching as Ann retrieved the bottle with visibly shaking hands.
"Everything alright?" he asked, concern finally showing in his expression.
Ann straightened, clutching the spray bottle like a talisman. "Fine," she said automatically, the lie so practiced it came without thought.
Tom's eyebrows drew together as he studied her pale face. "You don't look fine. You've been jumping at shadows all night. Lena said you nearly screamed when that busboy dropped a tray."
Ann's throat tightened. She hadn't screamed, but it had been close—the sudden crash bringing her heart into her throat, her body instinctively bracing for danger.
"I saw his patrol car today," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "During my break. Parked across the street, watching the restaurant.”
Tom sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Porter—"
"I took photos," she interrupted, reaching for her phone. "Car number 37. The same one my neighbor Rosa's seen outside my apartment. It has a dent on the rear bumper—it's definitely his car. He was watching me, Tom."
Tom glanced at the photos without really examining them. "Look, I know you're convinced there's something sinister going on, but—"
"There is something going on. I’m telling you Tom.”
"Ann." Tom's use of her first name rather than her surname caught her attention. "Have you considered that maybe you're seeing connections that aren't there?"
"No." Ann shook her head firmly. "These aren't coincidences. They can't be."
Tom's expression softened into something like pity. "Why don't you take tomorrow off? Get some rest. Things will seem clearer with a good night's sleep."
The dismissal in his tone was unmistakable.
Though his concern seemed genuine, he still didn't believe her—not really.
Ann nodded mechanically, too exhausted to argue further.
She finished cleaning her tables in silence, then gathered her belongings from the break room, hyperaware of Tom watching her with that same pitying expression.