Chapter 40
THEN:
Ann's fingertips brushed against her phone in her pocket as she pushed through Granger's side entrance, scanning the parking lot one final time before letting the heavy door swing shut behind her.
Her shoulders dropped imperceptibly when she found Tom waiting by the time clock, his usual morning greeting replaced by a grim nod toward his office door.
Her stomach twisted—nothing good ever came from private conversations in that cramped back room with its perpetually flickering fluorescent light and walls too thin for genuine privacy.
"Before you clock in," Tom said, his voice low enough that the kitchen staff couldn't hear. "Need to talk to you."
Ann followed him into the office, her feet suddenly heavy, as if her body instinctively resisted whatever conversation awaited.
Tom's office hadn't changed in the years she'd worked at Granger's—the same metal desk drowning under stacks of invoices and employee records, the same small window overlooking the kitchen's prep area, the same framed photo of Tom with his wife at the restaurant's grand opening fifteen years earlier.
The familiarity that once felt comforting now seemed insufficient protection against the storm she sensed brewing.
Tom gestured toward the single chair facing his desk, then closed the door behind them. The soft click of the latch engaging sounded unnaturally final in the confined space.
"I got a call yesterday," Tom began, settling into his creaking desk chair, not quite meeting Ann's eyes. "From Officer Hale."
Ann's throat constricted, her body's reaction immediate and visceral at the mere mention of Marcus's name. She gripped the edge of her chair, fingers pressing into the worn padding as if seeking an anchor in suddenly turbulent waters.
"He says you've been making accusations," Tom continued, his discomfort evident in the way he rearranged papers on his desk that didn't need rearranging.
"Telling people he's stalking you. That he planted some device on your car.
" He finally looked up, his expression caught between concern for a long-time employee and worry about potential liability.
"He's threatening legal action, Ann. Defamation. Says you're damaging his reputation."
A bitter laugh escaped her before she could contain it—short, sharp, and edged with hysteria. "His reputation," she repeated, the words tasting like copper in her mouth. "He breaks into my apartment, follows me home, plants tracking devices on my car, and he's worried about his reputation?"
Tom's brow furrowed, his hands stilling on the papers. "These are serious allegations against a respected officer, Ann. The community trusts Marcus. He's been on the force for nearly a decade without complaints."
"Because victims are too scared to report," Ann countered, her voice suddenly steadier as anger temporarily displaced fear. "Or when they do report, no one believes them."
Something in Tom's expression shifted—not quite belief yet, but no longer the dismissal she'd grown accustomed to seeing whenever she mentioned Marcus's surveillance.
"Look, I can see you're genuinely distressed," he said, his tone softening. "And that's why I wanted to talk privately—before this escalates further."
Ann's hands trembled as she pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocking it with fingers that felt stiff and clumsy. "I have proof," she said, navigating to her photo gallery with practiced efficiency. "Not just my word."
She placed the phone on Tom's desk, turning the screen so he could see the first image—Marcus's patrol car, number 37, at 2:17 a.m. three nights earlier.
"This is a half-mile from his patrol route," she explained, swiping to show similar photos taken on different nights, each meticulously timestamped. "And this one—same car, different angle, 3:45 a.m. He sits there for hours, Tom. Watching my windows."
Tom leaned forward, squinting at the small screen, his professional skepticism battling with the evidence before him. "Could be a coincidence," he suggested, though his tone lacked conviction. "Maybe there were calls in your area."
"Every night? For weeks?"
Tom's expression darkened as he studied the photo. "But still—"
"There's more." Ann set her phone aside, reaching into her purse with unsteady hands.
She withdrew a small plastic bag containing the black electronic device she'd carefully removed from beneath her car.
She placed it on the desk between them, the object's sinister purpose unmistakable despite its innocuous appearance.
"This was under my car," she said. "Installed without my knowledge or consent. After I found it, I had a mechanic friend check it out." She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice steady. "It's a tracking device, Tom."
Tom reached for the bag hesitantly, as if the device might somehow activate through the plastic. He held it up to the flickering fluorescent light, examining the smooth black casing.
"Jesus," he muttered, the word barely audible. “So, it’s true?”
Tom set the device down carefully. He rubbed his hand across his face, the gesture stripping away years of professional distance, revealing genuine concern beneath.
"Why didn't you bring this to me sooner?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"I tried," Ann replied, the words emerging more exhausted than accusatory. "You told me I was overreacting. That I should be flattered by his attention."
Tom winced, recognizing his own dismissive words reflected back at him. "I thought—" He paused, reconsidering. "I'm sorry, Ann. I should have listened."
The simple acknowledgment—so long awaited—hit Ann with unexpected force. Her eyes burned with sudden tears that she refused to let fall, blinking rapidly to dispel them. This wasn't a time for emotional release; it was a moment to press her advantage, to cement the ally she'd finally found.
"What do I do now?" she asked, her voice steadying. "He has the entire police department behind him. Who would even take my report seriously?"
Tom was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the tracking device still sitting between them. When he spoke again, his voice carried a new resolve.
"My brother-in-law," he said finally. "Works for the state police.
Internal investigations division." He looked up, meeting Ann's eyes directly.
"This isn't just a personal issue anymore.
If an officer is abusing his position, planting surveillance devices—that's corruption.
That's something the state-level guys take very seriously. "
A fragile hope unfurled in Ann's chest—not quite relief, not yet, but the first breath of possibility that her nightmare might have witnesses beyond her own frightened documentation.
"Will he help?" she asked, hardly daring to believe after so many closed doors, so many dismissals.
"I'll call him today," Tom promised, sliding the device back across the desk toward her. "Keep this safe. Document everything, like you've been doing." He hesitated, then added with grim certainty, "And Ann? Don't be alone if you can help it. Not until we get this sorted."
Ann nodded, reclaiming the device with careful fingers.
She recognized the shift in Tom's demeanor—the transition from skepticism to belief, from dismissal to concern.
It should have felt like victory. Instead, it highlighted how serious her situation had become.
If even Tom, who'd known Marcus for years, now saw the danger, then her instincts had been right all along.
She was being hunted by a man with a badge, and the hunt was accelerating toward its endgame.
The last customer shuffled out of Granger's at 10:17, leaving behind a coffee cup with lipstick on the rim and a tip too small for the time they'd occupied the table.
Ann wiped down the surface with mechanical efficiency, her movements precise despite the exhaustion that pulled at her limbs as if gravity had doubled.
She hadn't slept properly in days—perhaps weeks—and the constant vigilance required to monitor the dining room while avoiding Marcus and his colleagues had drained what little energy remained after her restless nights.
All she wanted was the temporary sanctuary of her apartment with its new locks and security camera, the small fortress she'd created against the watching eyes that followed her movements through the world.
"I'll walk you out," Tom said, appearing beside her as she collected her purse from the break room locker. His keys jangled in his hand, the restaurant's alarm remote already poised between his fingers.
The simple acknowledgment—that her fear was valid, her danger real—created a complicated knot of emotion in Ann's chest. Relief that someone finally believed her.
Gratitude for the small protection Tom offered.
Terror that even this knowledgeable ally might not be enough against what awaited her beyond the restaurant's walls.
They moved through the closing routine with practiced efficiency—lights dimmed, alarm system primed, back door secured.
Tom held the employee exit open, gesturing for Ann to precede him into the parking lot.
The spring night air carried a hint of chill, raising goosebumps on Ann's forearms as she stepped outside.
The employee parking area was dimly lit, shadows stretching between the few remaining vehicles.
Lena's car was gone, as was Chef Cho's—only Tom's aging pickup and Ann's Honda remained, separated by three empty spaces.
Ann's eyes performed their habitual scan—left to right, right to left, checking each potential hiding spot, each darkened corner where a figure might lurk unseen.
"All clear," Tom said, misinterpreting her hesitation as a request for him to check the surroundings. He moved ahead of her, keys jingling with each step, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet lot.
Ann followed, her own keys already positioned between her knuckles in the defensive formation she'd adopted weeks ago.
She kept close to Tom's back, using his larger form as both shield and guide through the darkness.
The security light above her parking space flickered erratically, creating strobing shadows that transformed ordinary objects into potential threats.
Tom reached her car first, his stride faltering as he approached the passenger side. "Ah, hell," he muttered, the words emerging as a sigh of resignation rather than surprise.
Ann moved beside him, following his gaze to her front passenger-side tire.
Even in the unreliable light, the damage was unmistakable—the rubber completely deflated, the tire sitting flat against the asphalt.
Her throat tightened as Tom crouched beside it, pulling out his phone to illuminate the damage.
"That's no nail," he said, voice hardening as his flashlight beam revealed a clean, precise slice across the sidewall. "Someone did this deliberately."
Ann's keys slipped from her suddenly trembling fingers, clattering against the asphalt with a sound that made her flinch. "He's escalating," she whispered, the words emerging with such certainty that Tom didn't bother questioning who "he" might be. They both knew.
Tom straightened, retrieving her fallen keys and pressing them gently back into her palm. "I'll call roadside assistance," he said, already pulling out his phone. "You can leave the car here overnight. I'll drive you home."
Ann nodded mechanically, her eyes still fixed on the damaged tire. The cut was surgical in its precision—not a jagged tear or puncture, but a clean slice that would ensure complete deflation without the dramatic noise of a blowout. Calculated. Controlled. A message rather than mere vandalism.
"They'll be here in twenty minutes," Tom said after completing the call. He leaned against the hood of her car, arms crossed over his chest as they prepared to wait. "My brother-in-law's coming into town tomorrow. Said he'd meet us here, take your statement officially."
Ann felt a flicker of hope, quickly extinguished by practical reality. "Will it matter?" she asked, voice hollow. "It's my word against his. A waitress versus a respected officer."
"It's not just your word anymore," Tom reminded her, gesturing toward the slashed tire.
"It's physical evidence. It's the tracking devices.
It's the documented pattern." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "And it's my word too now, as a witness.
I've known Marcus for years. People will listen when I say something's not right. "