Chapter 2
The word was scratched deep into the paint.
MINE
Kyle's handwriting. She'd know it anywhere.
Five years married to that man. Five years of learning to read his moods, his tells, the way his anger built from simmer to explosion.
She'd memorized his handwriting the same way she'd memorized the sound of his footsteps, the smell of whiskey on his breath, the particular silence that meant a bad night was coming.
He'd been out of prison for three months. The restraining order was supposed to keep him away.
Paper didn't stop men like Kyle.
Amy checked her watch. Forty-five minutes until the breakfast rush. Forty-five minutes to make this disappear before her regulars saw it, before rumors started spreading through Fayetteville that Amy Lawson's ex was back and making trouble.
She went to the storage shed behind the diner and found the sandpaper, the primer, the can of red paint her aunt had kept for touch-ups. Her hands shook as she gathered the supplies.
She made them stop.
The sanding took twenty minutes.
Amy worked in smooth, even strokes, the way Aunt June had taught her when she was fourteen and learning that a diner required constant maintenance. Sand with the grain. Don't rush. Let the work steady your nerves.
MINE
The word disappeared under her hands, reduced to bare metal and wood shavings. She brushed the dust away and reached for the primer.
Kyle thought he could mark her. Brand her. Scratch his claim into her property like she was something he owned.
He'd thought that during their marriage too. Had made it clear with his fists, with his words, with the way he controlled every dollar and every decision until she'd forgotten what it felt like to make a choice on her own.
The night he'd put her in the hospital had been the night she'd remembered.
Amy spread primer across the sanded patch, covering the bare metal, erasing the evidence of his violence. She'd gotten good at that during their marriage. Covering bruises with makeup. Explaining away limps and split lips. Pretending everything was fine until she'd almost believed it herself.
Not anymore.
The primer dried in the morning heat. She applied the red paint in careful strokes, matching the shade as close as she could. It wouldn't be perfect—the new paint would be brighter than the weathered red around it—but it would be good enough.
Good enough was all she had.
The breakfast rush started at seven.
Amy moved through the familiar rhythm—coffee brewing, grill heating, the first customers trickling in with sleep-heavy eyes and desperate need for caffeine.
Frank from the auto shop. Two nurses finishing night shift at Cape Fear Valley.
A table of Fort Liberty soldiers who looked like they'd been up all night and needed eggs more than explanations.
She served them all with the same steady hands that had sanded Kyle's message off her door.
MINE
The word echoed in her head even though she'd erased it from the paint. He was escalating. The truck in the parking lot last night. The scratched door this morning. Whatever came next would be worse.
The bell above the door chimed at 8:30.
Two men walked in. Both thick-necked, hard-eyed, wearing the kind of casual clothes that didn't quite hide the prison muscle underneath. She recognized one of them—he'd been in the truck last night, watching through tinted windows.
They took the back booth without waiting to be seated.
Amy grabbed two menus and crossed the room, keeping her face neutral. "Morning. Coffee?"
"Yeah." The bigger one didn't look at her. "And we'll need a few minutes with the menu."
They took forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes of ordering one item at a time. Eggs, then toast, then bacon, then more coffee, then hash browns. Every order stretched out, every request delivered with the lazy arrogance of men who knew they were making her uncomfortable and enjoyed it.
The other customers came and went. The nurses paid and left. Frank headed to work. The soldiers cleared out for morning formation. And still the two men sat in her back booth, watching her, taking up space, making sure she understood that Kyle's reach extended beyond scratched doors.
When they finally stood to leave, the bigger one dropped a twenty on the table.
Their bill was forty-seven dollars.
Amy watched them walk out, watched the truck pull away from the lot, and felt the cold in her stomach spread.
She cleared the booth. Pocketed the twenty. Ate the loss.
It wasn't about the money. It was about the message.
We can take whatever we want.
The lunch rush was lighter than usual.
Amy told herself it was coincidence—Wednesday lunches were always slow—but she couldn't shake the feeling that word was already spreading.
That people were starting to avoid the diner because they'd heard about Kyle, about the crew he'd connected with in prison, about the kind of trouble that followed men like him.
By 2 PM, she had the place to herself.
She sat in the back booth—the same one Kyle's men had occupied—and pulled out her phone. The number for her divorce attorney was saved at the top of her contacts. She'd called it more times in the past three months than in the entire five years of her marriage.
"Henderson Law Office."
"This is Amy Lawson. I need to speak with Rebecca."
"One moment."
Hold music. Generic, soulless, the kind of sound that filled the spaces where hope used to live.
"Amy." Rebecca Henderson's voice was warm but tired. "What happened?"
"He scratched 'mine' into my front door. And two of his crew came in this morning. Sat in my restaurant for forty-five minutes, ordered slow, and stiffed me on the bill."
"Did you document—"
"I sanded the door down and repainted it before the breakfast rush. I didn't take pictures."
Silence on the other end.
"Amy, we've talked about this. Documentation is everything. Without evidence—"
"What was I supposed to do? Leave it there for my customers to see? Let everyone in Fayetteville know that my ex-husband is stalking me?"
"I understand, but—"
"The restraining order says he can't contact me. He's contacted me three times in two weeks. His men are sitting in my restaurant."
"Technically, the men aren't covered by the order unless we can prove—"
"Rebecca." Amy closed her eyes. "He's going to hurt me. You know that. I know that. Everyone who's ever met Kyle knows that. What does it take to make someone listen?"
Another silence. Longer this time.
"I'm doing everything I can within the system," Rebecca said finally. "But documenting violations takes time. Building a case takes time. The court won't revoke his parole based on scratched paint and an unpaid breakfast tab."
"So I'm supposed to wait? Just... wait until he does something bad enough to matter?"
"I'm not saying that. I'm saying we need to be strategic. Photograph everything. Keep a log. Call the police every time something happens, even if you think they won't do anything. We're building a paper trail."
"A paper trail won't stop him from putting me back in the hospital."
"Amy—"
"I know. I know you're trying." She rubbed her forehead, exhaustion pressing down like a physical weight. "What about the diner? He keeps saying I owe him, that he has a claim on the business. Is there any way he could—"
"The deed is in your name. He signed away any interest in the divorce settlement. Legally, he has no claim."
"Kyle doesn't care about legally."
"I know." Rebecca's voice softened. "Look, document everything you can. Be patient. These things take time to work through the system, but we'll get there."
Be patient.
Amy wanted to laugh. She'd been patient for five years of marriage. Patient through the insults and the control and the nights she'd slept with one eye open. Patient through the trial and the divorce and the two years of peace while Kyle rotted in prison.
Her patience had run out the moment she'd seen that word scratched into her door.
"Thanks, Rebecca. I'll call if anything else happens."
She hung up before the attorney could respond.
The diner was quiet around her. Empty tables, empty stools, the smell of coffee and grease and the particular loneliness of a place built for crowds when the crowds stayed away.
MINE
Kyle thought he could claim her. Thought prison hadn't changed the fundamental equation—that she was his property, his to control, his to destroy if she didn't cooperate.
He was wrong.
Amy stood, straightened her apron, and went back to the kitchen to prep for the dinner shift.
The legal system couldn't help her. The police couldn't help her. The paper trail Rebecca wanted to build would take months, maybe years, and Kyle wasn't going to wait that long.
She was on her own.
Same as always.