Chapter 28
THEN:
"Ann?" Tom's voice made her jump as he emerged from his office. "Jesus, you look like hell."
She forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile. "Just didn't sleep well."
Tom frowned, taking in the dark half-moons beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin. "You know, if you need another day off—"
"I'm fine," she cut him off, the words automatic by now. "Really."
He didn't look convinced but nodded anyway, retreating into his office as Ann continued toward the break room. Her gaze swept across the restaurant through the kitchen pass-through—scanning tables, doorways, and windows. No sign of Marcus. Not yet.
She spotted Miriam by the service station, arranging silverware into rolled napkins with quick, efficient movements. Relief flooded through her—a friendly face, someone who'd at least begun to believe her. Ann approached swiftly, glancing over her shoulder before touching Miriam's elbow.
"I need to show you something," she whispered, her voice strained even to her own ears. "Break room. Now."
Miriam's eyebrows rose, but she followed without question, abandoning her task. Ann led the way, checking the employee hallway once more before pulling Miriam into the empty break room and shutting the door with more force than she'd intended.
"What's going on?" Miriam asked, concern replacing her usual easy smile. "You look terrible."
Ann's hands trembled as she fumbled with her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste to unlock the screen. "Last night," she began, her voice catching. "Two in the morning. He was there, Miriam. Outside my apartment."
"Marcus?" Miriam stepped closer, her voice dropping instinctively.
Ann nodded, pulling up her photo gallery with fingers that wouldn't quite obey her commands. "I couldn't sleep. I've barely slept in days. I was checking the windows—I do that now, every hour or so—and there he was."
She turned the phone toward Miriam, displaying the first image—a patrol car parked at night, partially obscured by a hedge but clearly visible in the harsh glow of her phone's night mode. The timestamp in the corner read 2:07 a.m.
"This is from last night?" Miriam took the phone, studying the image with narrowed eyes.
"Swipe right. I took several." Ann's voice quivered. "He was there for over an hour. Just sitting. Watching."
Miriam swiped through the photos, each showing the patrol car from slightly different angles. The final image was the clearest. The number 37 was clearly visible on its door.
"That's definitely his car," Miriam said, her tone shifting from curious to concerned. "The one with the dent in the rear bumper?"
Ann nodded vigorously. "And it gets worse. After the traffic stop the other day—"
"He pulled you over again?" Miriam's head snapped up, her fingers tightening around Ann's phone.
"On my way home. Said I rolled through a stop sign on Westfield and Elm.
" Ann's voice rose slightly before she caught herself, glancing at the closed door.
"I didn't, Miriam. I swear to God I didn't. I've been so careful—counting in my head at every stop sign, watching my speed exactly.
I knew he'd use any excuse to pull me over. "
"What happened?"
Ann hugged her arms around herself, as if the physical pressure might keep her from falling apart.
"He kept me there for twenty minutes, just asking questions.
Where was I going? Was I heading straight home?
What route was I taking home?" She swallowed hard.
"He said he'd noticed I took Cedar Lane the night before—that's the detour I made when I was checking if someone was following me. "
"How did he know that?" Miriam whispered.
"Because he was the one following me." Ann's voice cracked. "He wanted me to know he was watching."
Miriam took a step back, her expression shifting as the full implications sank in. She zoomed in on one of the photos, focusing on the license plate and the distinctive dent in the bumper. "This is the same patrol car you've seen before? You're absolutely sure?"
"Positive." Ann rubbed her hands over her face, smearing the concealer she'd carefully applied to hide the evidence of her sleepless night. "Number 37. The same one I’ve seen him arrive here in, the same one my neighbor saw. The same one he used to pull me over."
"And he didn't give you a ticket? Just a warning?"
Ann nodded. "He doesn't want official records. He wants me scared." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It's working."
Miriam handed back the phone; her earlier skepticism had completely evaporated. "You need to tell Tom about this," she said firmly, squeezing Ann's arm. "This is beyond uncomfortable customer territory now."
"I tried." Ann scrolled through the photos again, as if confirming to herself that the evidence was real, that she wasn't imagining the escalating nightmare. "He thinks I'm overreacting. That I should be flattered by the attention."
"Show him these photos," Miriam insisted. "The timestamp, the car number—it's all right there. This isn't some police officer with a crush. This is stalking, Ann."
The word hung in the air between them, stark and undeniable. Ann had been circling it for weeks, afraid to give voice to her fears, but now it stood plainly before them. Stalking. By a man with a badge, a gun, and the institutional power to make any complaint disappear.
"What if telling Tom makes it worse?" Ann whispered. "What if Marcus finds out I'm documenting this? What if—"
The break room door swung open, and both women jumped. Lena stood in the doorway, her eyebrows rising at their obvious tension.
"Sorry to interrupt whatever's going on, but Ann, you've got customers at table four," she said, her gaze moving between them with open curiosity.
Ann nodded, hastily shoving her phone into her apron pocket. "I'll be right there."
Lena hesitated, clearly sensing the charged atmosphere. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," Ann said automatically, the lie worn smooth from repetition. "Just showing Miriam some photos."
As Lena retreated, Miriam grabbed Ann's wrist, holding her back. "This isn't going away on its own," she said softly. "And I'm worried about what happens next if you don't get help."
Ann nodded, acknowledging the truth in Miriam's words even as fear knotted in her stomach. "I'll talk to Tom after the lunch rush," she promised, though her voice lacked conviction. "I need to get to my tables."
She straightened her shoulders and smoothed her apron, summoning the professional mask she'd perfected over years of service work.
But as she pushed through the door into the dining room, her eyes automatically swept the entrance, the windows, the parking lot beyond—scanning for a white and blue patrol car, for the man whose surveillance had transformed her life into an unending nightmare.
Ann balanced the water pitcher with both hands as she refilled glasses for the elderly couple seated by the window.
The afternoon sun streamed through the glass, warming her back as she bent over the table, smiling mechanically at the woman's comment about the wonderful weather we’re having.
She'd managed to maintain a veneer of normalcy for the first half of her shift, though each jingle of the bell above the entrance door sent a jolt of electricity up her spine, her body constantly braced for the moment she dreaded.
When it finally came—the distinctive sound of the door swinging open with more force than necessary—she didn't need to turn to know.
Something in the sudden stillness of the restaurant, the shift in air pressure, told her exactly who had entered.
Ann's hands froze mid-pour, water hovering just above the rim of the glass. Through the window's reflection, she caught a glimpse of crisp blue uniforms—not one but two. Marcus had brought backup.
"Is everything alright, dear?" the elderly woman asked, noticing Ann's sudden rigidity.
Ann's grip on the pitcher slipped, water sloshing dangerously close to the edge. She steadied it with a jerky movement, spilling a few drops onto the tablecloth.
"I'm so sorry," she managed, the words barely audible as her throat constricted. "I'll bring some extra napkins."
She turned, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor, but peripheral vision betrayed her—Marcus stood at the hostess stand with another officer.
Officer Ramirez, she saw on her name tag.
Marcus's head was already turning, scanning the restaurant with deliberate thoroughness until his eyes locked onto her position by the window.
The slight curve of his lips wasn't quite a smile, but a recognition, an acknowledgment of prey spotted.
The pitcher threatened to slip from Ann's suddenly numb fingers.
She clutched it against her chest, pivoted sharply, and walked with measured steps toward the kitchen.
Not running. Running would attract attention, would confirm her fear.
But every instinct screamed at her to flee, to escape those eyes that tracked her movement across the dining room floor.
Ann pushed through the swinging kitchen doors with her shoulder, the familiar sounds of the kitchen—the sizzle of the grill, the clatter of plates, Chef Cho's precise instructions to the line cook—enveloping her like a protective cocoon.
She set the water pitcher down with trembling hands, breathing in short, shallow gasps that couldn't quite satisfy her lungs.
"Porter? You look like you've seen a ghost." Chef Cho glanced up from the grill, her knife pausing mid-slice through a red pepper.
"He's here," Ann whispered, the words catching in her dry throat. "Marcus. With another officer."
Chef Cho's expression shifted, understanding immediately. She set down her knife with deliberate care. "In your section?"
"They'll request it." Ann moved toward the chef, desperation evident in her rigid posture. "I can't go out there. Please—can someone cover my tables? Just until they leave?"