Chapter 22 #2
I thought of the week’s irritations and let them slide across my tongue like a tasting flight.
“Former line cook who quit in a huff—Darryl—because I wouldn’t let him put truffle oil on everything.
A vendor I dropped when he started cutting corners.
A chef across town who thinks I stole her pastry hire.
A neighbor who hates garbage trucks at 6 a.m. An ex who thinks I should have smiled more and cooked less.
” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a long list if we’re counting bruised egos. ”
“Name the ex,” Caleb said, too casual.
I arched a brow. “Jealous?”
“Thorough.”
“Elliott Marks,” I said. “But he’s not the note-writing type. He’s the ‘send me ten paragraphs at 1 a.m.’ type.”
“Okay,” Caleb said, filing it away in whatever mental armory he carried around.
Dean pointed with two fingers. “And the man you saw at the benches?”
“I didn’t see his face,” I said. “Just the shape of him. The way he didn’t move.” The memory scraped, cold and slick. “Like he had all the time in the world.”
Caleb’s jaw went taut again. “Could be the same. Could be unrelated. Could be someone clocking doors for later.”
“Later for what?” Trish asked, very softly.
“Access,” Caleb said, just as soft. “To leave a calling card. To prove they can.”
“What does he want then?” I asked. “He’s not asking for anything in the notes. He’s not threatening. He’s just … announcing.”
“Presence is power,” Dean said. “You announce enough, people start shaping their lives around the announcement.”
“I can’t do that,” I said, too fast. “I can’t start building my days around someone else’s shadow.”
“No one’s asking you to,” Trish said, squeezing my hand. “We’re asking you to let us help you make sure the shadow stays outside.”
Caleb’s thumbs pressed together like he was aligning a thought.
“We do three things. One—map the flow. Every service, who touches the front, who lingers, who has reason to be there. I’ll watch the feeds tonight and pull stills to run against staff and regulars.
Two—change the rhythm. Put decoys on the hostess stand.
Rotate placements. Control where people can wander without making it feel like control.
Three—outside. I’ll walk the block every hour tonight.
Check bench sightlines, alley lines, parked cars with condensation on the windshield.
Anyone who’s sitting to sit, I talk to. Anyone who’s sitting to watch, I make sure knows he’s been seen.
” He looked at me. “And you don’t lock up alone again. Full stop.”
It should have sounded suffocating. It didn’t. It sounded like air.
Dean nodded, some of the bite leaving his mouth. “Put me on the walk list. I’m not sleeping, anyway.”
“You’re on a date,” I said. “A mini-vaca.”
“Both can be true,” he said. “I’ll walk with the very beautiful woman I married.”
Trish smiled. “I do love The Battery.”
Finn leaned a hip against the chair. “We can also reassign tasks without making it obvious. Hostess welcomes at a side angle so they’re never alone at the stand. Bussers do table water refills in pairs on the last turn. I’ll stand at the pass for ten minutes every half hour and face the room.”
“You hate facing the room,” I said.
“In this situation,” he said, “the room can face me.”
Caleb’s phone buzzed once. He glanced, eyes flicking narrow, then relaxed again. “System ping—camera four saw a shadow near the alley, but it was wind through the crepe myrtle.”
Dean’s attention sharpened. “You sure?”
“Replayed it twice. We’ll keep an eye.”
“And the police?” Trish asked, tentative. “Do we loop them in?”
I felt my throat close. “A report puts it on paper. Paper leaks. Paper turns into whispers that the chef at Promenade is paranoid or unstable or unsafe. We’re trying to get the right attention. Not that.”
Dean held my gaze. “You don’t owe a story to anyone.”
“I know,” I said. “But this industry runs on stories. The wrong one spreads like grease fire.”
Caleb nodded, conceding the point. “We can wait a night. Collect more. If we get a face, we take it in, make it clean. Right now, we’ve got elegant threats and a sense of theater.”
“Whoever it is understands you,” Trish said, eyes on me. “Or thinks he does.”
“That’s what I hate,” I said, a laugh curling out sharp. “The presumption of it. I already have a voice in my head second-guessing my salt. I don’t need a stranger adding commentary.”
“Then take it back,” Dean said. “Tonight. In front of them.”
“How?” I asked.
He glanced at my chalkboard menu, then at the hostess stand. “Act like the room is full of people who love you. When dinner service is done, you stand at that host stand and you talk too long to your guests for anyone to get close.”
Finn snapped his fingers. “We do the Meggie move.”
I blinked. “The what?”
“You told me your mom would stand in the doorway at closing and hug every single person like they’d loaned her money she didn’t deserve,” he said. “Do that. Make the doorway a stage. No one can sneak a note onto a stage.”
My chest tightened, sudden and painful. “She did do that.”
“Then we borrow her,” Finn said gently.
Trish’s eyes glossed, just for a second. “She’d like that.”
Caleb’s hand found mine under the table, warm and solid. “We’ll be right there,” he said.
Dean saw the touch. Something unclenched in his face I hadn’t realized was locked tight.
“Okay,” he said, settling back. “We’ve got a plan. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. You work your side. We’ll work ours.” He pointed at Caleb, an old coach giving the ball to a new player. “And you—if you see something that feels like more than theater, you don’t ask permission. You move her.”
“I already plan to,” Caleb said.
“Good,” Dean said, and for the first time all night, the word wasn’t edged. It held.