Dana Nussio - Shielded By The Lawman

“The fuzz boys do something to upset you? Because if they did, I could talk—”

“No, they’re good customers.”

“Good. But if they get out of line...”

As Sarah leaned into a booth to reset the condiments, she turned away so that he wouldn’t see her eye roll. Ted hadn’t even hinted that he would ban them for bad behavior. He couldn’t turn away paying customers, especially those who appeared harmless.

But she’d made the mistake of trusting the police once and had barely survived to tell the story. She brushed away that thought with a swipe of her forearm over her forehead. Compared to those Chicago officers, this group seemed like choir boys.

When the image of one particular choir member invaded her thoughts, his wide eyes staring back at her, Sarah’s hand jerked. A saltshaker slipped from her fingers and skidded across the table, leaving a sticky white mess on the laminate.

“Butterfingers tonight?” Ted asked.

“I’m just tired.”

The sound system blared with one of the country ballads she’d once adored, as a singer crooned about a love that didn’t exist. Hearts and hope and heaven easily turned to hurt and hits and hell.

She righted the saltshaker and cleared the residue with her cloth. If only it were as easy to erase the other mistakes she’d made tonight. She had one rule—keep her distance from others—and she’d broken it faster than an order up for scrambled eggs and toast.

She moved to the next table, but Jamie’s face flashed back at her from the mirrored napkin dispenser. He had kind eyes, she decided, and then shook her head. Why had she chosen now to think about that? She must have noticed his eyes before. Maybe because they matched his boyish face. But when she’d really looked at him tonight, what she’d seen had ripped at her heart.

So, blame her odd behavior on the misery in his eyes. That rare vulnerability in a guy whose career suggested a preternatural fearlessness had drawn her in, but that was all there was to it. All there ever could be. Friendships were a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Sarah blinked, the absurdity of those thoughts as shocking as her actions tonight. She needed to go home, where she could reclaim her good sense and her survival instinct. She had to remember the truth: She could count on no one but herself.

“Marilyn’s late,” Ted said.

“Again?”

“She called this time. Car trouble.”

She’d moved to the set-up table and was rolling cutlery, but now her gaze shifted to the door. At least there wasn’t a crowd of diehards arriving from Salute Lounge. If they had a rush, Ted might ask her to stay until Marilyn arrived. Again.

“You’d better clock out then,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

“I do need to get home.”

“Aiden’s already in bed by now, right?”

“He’d sure better be, or he’ll never get up for school.” She wished she didn’t still stiffen at his mention of her son’s name. It hadn’t turned out too bad, anyway, the few times she’d had to bring her son to work with her.

“He doesn’t have to. There’s no school tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. One of those teacher in-service days. A kid holiday.”

Or a single parent’s nightmare. What was she supposed to do with her son now? Even her sitter, Nadia, worked days twice a week.

“Bring Aiden with you in the morning,” Ted said. “We never get to see him.”

“I just don’t want him to be bored.” Or seen.

“You kidding? He loves it here. Who wouldn’t?”

Maybe a six-year-old who’d prefer to play outside? “Why do you know about this schedule change and I don’t?”

He held up a sheet of paper. “Local school district calendar. I watch it to know which mornings we’ll be overrun with kids and their parents.”

But that didn’t explain why she hadn’t known. Had she missed something in Aiden’s backpack? She tried to keep on top of that mess, but sometimes she was just too tired. It was easier to curl up with her sleeping boy after she’d carried him down the freezing second-floor walkway from Nadia’s apartment to her own.

“Everything’s ready for the morning, right?” Ted asked.

“The cinnamon rolls are all ready to go in the oven.”

“You made extra, like I asked?”

She nodded, his earlier request now making sense.

“And you’ll be able to come in earlier since Aiden doesn’t have school? Eight maybe?”

Her second nod hurt a little more. Aiden would be grouchy if she got him up early on his day off.

“Good. Then you’d better get home.”

She headed back into the kitchen for her jacket before he changed his mind. She slid it on and pulled up her hood in case it was still raining.

Jamie had been soaked when he’d come in earlier, though the others had been dry. The thought struck her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, where puddles remained, though the downpour had dwindled.

Why was the police officer on her mind again? Didn’t she have enough on her plate without taking on someone else’s problems? Bigger problems even than that she’d known nothing about her son’s school holiday. Obstacles like caring for a child who deserved a better, safer life than she’d given him, and too many bills with a paycheck that wouldn’t stretch. And the ever-present need to look over her shoulder for a boogeyman with a recognizable face, a booming voice and pain-inflicting hands.

As a familiar tickly sensation scampered up the back of her neck, she splayed her apartment keys between her thumb and first two fingers to face off with a possible attacker.

No one was following her. She knew that. Aiden was safe. They were safe. So why did every drip of leftover rainwater from the gutter echo in her ears? Why did each crunch of her shoes on the concrete throw off sounds as difficult to place as a ventriloquist’s voice? That seemed to come from behind her.

She’d made it only to the corner of the storefront when she gave in and peeked over her shoulder. The sidewalk and even the street were deserted. In the lot between Casey’s and its nearest neighbor, Langston’s Furnishings, only two cars remained. Ted’s and the clunker that Léon used to drive himself, the night cook, Marty, and sometimes her to work. At least she wasn’t the only one who didn’t have a car. She hurried across the parking lot, but as she passed Ted’s car, a pair of headlight beams whipped into the lot, the vehicle they were attached to barely slowing to make the turn. The car swerved into a parking space, its driver cutting the engine.

Sarah froze, a squeal escaping her. She needed to run back inside, yet her feet felt glued in place. Instead, she was forced to watch, an unwilling bystander to her own life. The car door flew open, and the driver leaped out and ran right toward her, something light fluttering beneath the figure’s hooded raincoat.

As the runner’s bare legs came into view, Sarah released the breath she’d been holding. “Marilyn?”

Of course, the waitress would be the one racing in and then sprinting across the parking lot with her apron whipping like a flag behind her. So why couldn’t Sarah stop shaking? Why did she have to assume that every fast-moving car would be him coming for her to finish the job, like he’d always said he would?

Marilyn didn’t even come to a full stop when she reached her. “Sorry I’m late. The babysitter—”

“Ted said it was car trouble.”

“That, too.”

Marilyn’s wry smile suggested there was more to it. Sarah nodded. Single moms had to have each other’s backs since no one else did. With a wave, the woman rounded corner to the entrance.

Sarah continued home on foot. It was safer this way. No license plate for police to trace. No checks on the numbers of a driver’s license that matched an eighty-year-old woman’s profile. A deceased one at that.