Chapter 4
The man was waiting on her car.
Trent Maynard. Kyle's right hand.
She'd learned his name from the police report after Kyle's arrest. Trent had been there that night, had watched Kyle beat her bloody, had done nothing to stop it. The cops had questioned him as a witness, but he'd kept his mouth shut.
Loyal to Kyle. Then and now.
Amy parked three spaces away and sat in her car, engine running, hands gripping the wheel. She could leave. Turn around, drive to the police station, file another report that would join the stack of useless paperwork.
Or she could face him.
She killed the engine.
Trent straightened as she approached, a smile spreading across his face that didn't reach his eyes. "Amy. Looking good."
"Get off my car."
"That's not very friendly. Kyle said you'd be friendly."
"Kyle said wrong."
She tried to walk past him toward the diner's entrance. He stepped into her path, close enough that she could smell cigarettes and cheap cologne.
"Kyle wants a meeting," Trent said. "This weekend. Sit-down conversation about the diner. The finances. What you owe him."
"I don't owe him anything."
"That's not how he sees it."
"I don't care how he sees it." Amy met his eyes, forcing steel into her voice. "The divorce settlement was clear. He signed away any claim to this property. It's mine."
"Property." Trent laughed—an ugly sound. "That's cute. You think a piece of paper matters? Kyle spent five years in a cage thinking about this place. About what you took from him while he was inside."
"I took nothing. I kept the diner running. I paid for his defense attorney. I did everything—"
"You divorced him."
The words landed like a slap.
"While he was locked up," Trent continued. "Couldn't even fight back. Couldn't even—"
"He put me in the hospital." Amy's voice shook, but she didn't look away. "He broke my ribs. He fractured my eye socket. He almost killed me. So yes, I divorced him. And I'd do it again."
Something shifted in Trent's expression. Not anger—something colder. The flat assessment of a man deciding how hard to push.
"Kyle's not asking for a meeting," he said quietly. "He's telling you there's going to be one. This weekend. You can come willing, or we can bring you."
"Touch me and I'll call the police."
"Police." He laughed again. "You think they care? You think anyone's going to protect you from what's coming?"
"Get away from my car."
"Sunday night. Nine o'clock. Kyle will send someone to pick you up."
"I won't be here."
"Then we'll find you somewhere else." Trent stepped aside, finally clearing her path to the door. "Think about it, Amy. Think about what happens if you keep saying no."
She walked past him without responding.
Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely get the key in the lock.
The diner was empty when she got inside.
Amy locked the front door behind her, threw the deadbolt, and stood with her back against the glass until her heart stopped racing. Through the window, she could see Trent walking back to the truck parked at the edge of the lot.
He didn't leave.
He climbed into the driver's seat, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. Watching.
Waiting.
Amy moved away from the door on unsteady legs. She needed to start prep work—the afternoon cook would be here in an hour, and the dinner rush started at five. Normal routine. Normal rhythm. Pretend everything was fine.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She went to the kitchen and started chopping vegetables for the evening's soup. Onions, carrots, celery—the motion was familiar, automatic, something she'd done a thousand times since she was old enough to hold a knife.
The blade slipped. She sliced her finger open.
Blood welled up, bright red against the cutting board. Amy stared at it for a moment, watching it drip, feeling nothing but the distant throb of pain.
Then she grabbed a towel, wrapped her finger, and kept chopping.
Trent stayed for two hours.
Amy watched him through the kitchen pass-through, through the dining room windows, through every glimpse she could steal between prep tasks. He sat in that truck, smoking, occasionally scrolling through his phone, never taking his eyes off the diner.
Message received.
We can reach you whenever we want. We can wait as long as we need to.
At 4:30, Maria came in for the evening shift. She was a college student, twenty years old, working her way through classes at Fayetteville Tech. She didn't deserve to be caught in the middle of this.
"Hey, Amy. Everything okay?"
"Fine." Amy forced a smile. "Can you handle the front for a bit? I need to make some calls."
"Sure thing."
Amy retreated to the tiny office behind the kitchen—a closet, really, with a desk and a filing cabinet and the old rotary phone her aunt had never gotten around to replacing. She closed the door and pulled out her cell.
Her first call was to Rebecca Henderson's office. Voicemail.
"Rebecca, it's Amy. Trent Maynard just threatened me in the parking lot. Told me Kyle wants a meeting this weekend, said they'd 'bring me' if I didn't come willing. He's been sitting in the lot for two hours watching me through the windows. Call me back."
She hung up and sat in the silence, the weight of it pressing down.
The legal system couldn't help her. The police couldn't help her. Rebecca's paper trail would take months to build, and Kyle wasn't going to wait months.
She needed to know exactly where she stood.
Amy scrolled through her contacts until she found the number she was looking for. Maureen Vickers—her aunt's oldest friend, thirty years at the Cumberland County clerk's office. If anyone could tell her the truth about her legal standing, it was Maureen.
"County clerk's office, this is Maureen."
"Maureen, it's Amy Lawson. June's niece."
"Amy! Honey, how are you? How's the diner?"
"It's fine. Listen, I need a favor. I need you to look something up for me."
"Of course. What do you need?"
"The deed to the diner. The property at 2823 Bragg Boulevard. I need to confirm it's solely in my name. No liens, no claims, no... nothing that would give anyone else a legal right to it."
Silence on the other end. Maureen had known June for thirty years. She'd watched Amy grow up in that diner. She understood, without Amy having to explain, what kind of trouble required this kind of question.
"Give me a minute, honey."
Amy listened to keyboard clicks, the rustle of paper, the distant hum of the clerk's office. Through the window, she could see the sun starting to set over the parking lot. Trent's truck was still there.
"Okay." Maureen's voice came back. "Property at 2823 Bragg Boulevard, currently deeded to Amy Catherine Lawson. Previous owner was June Marie Lawson, transferred upon death two years ago. No liens, no encumbrances, no claims of any kind."
"What about the divorce settlement? My ex-husband, Kyle Lawson—did he sign anything giving up rights?"
More clicking. "I've got a quitclaim deed here, filed eighteen months ago. Kyle Raymond Lawson relinquishing any and all interest in the property. Looks like it was part of a divorce settlement."
"So there's no way he could claim the diner?"
"Legally? No. He signed away everything. The property is yours, free and clear."
Amy closed her eyes. One small relief in a sea of problems.
"Thank you, Maureen."
"Amy, honey... is everything okay? You sound—"
"I'm fine. Just making sure my paperwork is in order."
"If you need anything—"
"I know. Thank you."
She hung up and sat in the dim office, listening to the sounds of the diner coming to life around her. Maria's voice greeting customers. The sizzle of the grill. The bell above the door chiming.
The deed was in her name. Kyle had no legal claim.
But Kyle didn't care about legal claims.
Kyle cared about control. About power. About taking what he thought belonged to him regardless of what the paperwork said.
Amy looked out the window at the truck still parked in her lot.
Think about what happens if you keep saying no.
She thought about it.
She thought about five years of marriage to a man who used his fists to make points. She thought about the night he'd put her in the hospital, the weight of him on top of her, the sound of her own ribs cracking.
She thought about saying no anyway.
Because the alternative—going to that meeting, letting Kyle think he'd won, giving him an inch that he'd turn into a mile—was worse than anything Trent could threaten.
The diner was hers.
She was hers.
And Kyle Lawson could go straight to hell.