The wooden door to the inner offices clicked open, and a young paralegal in a dark blue skirt stepped out with a legal pad.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vance?” she asked.
Julian stood up immediately, smoothing his jacket with both hands before I could answer.
“We are ready,” he said, not looking back at me as he walked toward the door.
By eight o’clock that evening, the floor of the diner kitchen was slick with spilled dishwater and melted ice.
Toby, the nineteen-year-old line cook, was scraping the flat top with a metal spatula. The scraping sound went straight through my temples, sharp and regular.
“Order up on four,” Toby said, sliding two plates of meatloaf under the red warming lamps.
I reached for the plates, but my hand was cold. My fingers slipped on the thick ceramic edge. The heavy white platters went down together, hitting the red quarry tile with a sound like a pistol shot.
The kitchen went completely quiet except for the hum of the exhaust hood.
