"Hey, P.J.," Chris, my fellow waiter, waves as I push open the door to the Greasy Spoon, "table four needs a touch-up on water."
I nod and head for the counter, grabbing an ice-cold pitcher off its granite top. The restaurant is full today, unsurprisingly. It's the only real restaurant in Beckett. Everything else is either a bar or some fancy-pants chain joint from the city.
Table four seats a single boy, about my age, wearing a trench coat and a scowl. I quietly approach and fill his glass, saying nothing all the while. In a flash, his hand darts out and catches my wrist in an iron grip.
"Ms. Russel," he murmurs, "please meet me outside in ten minutes."
With that, he's up and out of the restaurant, leaving me trembling and confused. I shake myself and make a round with my pitcher to all the waiting customers. The place where he grabbed my wrist is tingling. What the hell was that? I wonder as I pour water into a little girl's cup. Should I go out and meet him? He could be a killer.
How will you know if you don't go out and check? He could have more information about your father and C.G. The voice whispers.
A loud shriek breaks me out of my trance and I realize that I've spilled all over the little girl.
"What the heck was that!" The man sitting beside her, who I can only assume is her father, yells, "Look what you're doing, lady!"
Blushing, I sputter an apology, "I-I'm sorry! I don't know what came over me!"
"Crazy hick town girl," he mumbles, mopping up the water that's spilling onto his daughter's lap.
"Peggy!" Earl, my boss, calls.
I stumble back to the counter for my awaiting punishment. Who knows what it'll be this time: extra cleaning duty, one less good shift, early retirement. With Earl, there's always something new. The old man glares down at me from beneath the brim of his faded fedora. His sharp eyes dissect me as if I'm some big carrying a new disease. I brace myself for the lecture.
"What's up with you, Russel, huh? Lately you've been so out of it, spilling and breaking things left and right. I have half a mind to fire you on the spot."
I shake my head, "I'm sorry. I'm a klutz."
"Yeah, no doubt about it," Earl laughs half-heartedly, "you're a daydreamer. You know what? Take a break. Come back in when your ready to perform properly."
I untie my apron and sprint for the back door, desperate to get some air. As I make my way towards the back door, I can spot the boy in the trench coat, waiting solemnly just like he said. His ice-cold eyes bore straight into mine as I step out to join him, stopping any hint of my on-coming demand right in my throat.
"Ms. Russel," he greets, never lowering his gaze.
"Wh-what's this about?" I stutter uncertainly.
The boy smiles coldly, "All in due time, Ms. Russel. First of all, I'm Miles Carter." He offers his hand for a shake.
I take it, gripping it tightly. I'm no longer afraid, just curious. "Nice to meet you. Why'd you pull me out here?"
"The million dollar question, it seems," Miles nods, "that has quite a simple answer."
"Well? What is it?" I ask, stepping forward a little.
"Your father." He says simply.
