If Dario knew Cole was there, Dario would ask Maren to be discreet.
Maren was tired of discreet.
She was tired enough that something dangerous had started blooming inside her.
It had begun that afternoon when she found the passport missing.
Not misplaced.
Missing.
The drawer where she kept it had been opened. Her birth certificate was gone too. The cash taped under the sink was gone. The little prepaid phone Lila had given her was gone. Cole had left all the drawers half an inch open, just to let her know he had looked everywhere.
When she confronted him, he had not denied it.
“You don’t need documents if you aren’t going anywhere,” he had said.
Then he had kissed her forehead gently, right over the bruise.
That was when Maren understood something that chilled her more than his anger ever had.
Cole was not losing control.
Cole was making arrangements.
All evening, that thought followed her from table to table.
He was making arrangements.
He had not come to Bellamy’s to watch her.
He had come to remind her who owned the room she worked in, the name she wore, the air she breathed.
At eight-twelve, he sent back the wine.
At eight-twenty, he complained that his pheasant was cold.
At eight-twenty-six, he asked Maren to lean close so he could whisper something “private.”
She did.
His breath touched her ear.
“After your shift, you come straight home. No Lila. No phone. No foolishness. Nod if you understand.”
Maren nodded.
His hand brushed her wrist beneath the tablecloth.
To the others, it looked tender.
His thumb pressed into the bruise until the world flashed white.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Maren walked away carrying the returned plate.
In the kitchen, the chef cursed about rich men and cold pheasant. Maren kept walking. She passed the pastry station, the staff lockers, the laundry baskets. She opened the service door to the alley and stepped into the cold.
Rain glittered under the security light.
For one impossible second, she imagined running.
No coat. No purse. No documents. No money. Cole’s driver at the corner. Cole’s friends at the police charity board. Cole’s cousin at the courthouse. Cole’s voice in every room before hers could arrive.
She had tried once.
Everyone had believed him.
Maren closed the door and leaned her forehead against the metal.
Then she saw the order pad in her apron pocket.
A small white square of paper.
A pencil.
A table number.
Help me.
The words came into her mind so clearly that her hand moved before fear could stop it.
She tore a slip from the pad.
Her fingers shook so badly the pencil scraped through the paper.
HELP ME. PLEASE CALL POLICE. HUSBAND AT TABLE 9. DO NOT LET HIM TAKE ME HOME.
She stared at the note.
Too direct.
Too dangerous.
If Cole found it, he would smile first.
He always smiled first.
Maren swallowed, turned the paper over, and wrote on the other side:
For Table 13.
The restaurant did not have a table thirteen.
Dario had skipped the number years ago because wealthy people were ridiculous about superstition. Table twelve sat near the marble column. Table fourteen stood by the glass wine wall. There was no thirteen in the dining room, no thirteen on the reservation screen, no thirteen anywhere.
That was why Maren chose it.
A mistake could save her.
A mistake could also bury her.
She folded the note once, twice, until it looked like a request from a customer. Then she slipped back inside.
She had meant to give it to Lila.
But Lila was at the bar arguing with a guest about a missing coat. Dario stood near the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back, smiling at a gray-haired senator. Cole watched from table nine, eyes tracking Maren like a loaded gun.
Maren turned toward the bussing station.
No one.
Then a man’s voice behind her said, “Miss?”
She spun too quickly and nearly stumbled.
A young server named Tomas held out a tray. “Private dining requested their check folder. Can you drop this on your way? I’m drowning.”
Maren looked down.
Black leather folder.
Gold Bellamy’s crest.
Room name embossed on the front: The Kingsley Suite.
Not table thirteen.
Not safe.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Please. They asked twice.”
Behind Tomas, Cole rose halfway from his chair.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Watching.
Maren’s mouth went dry.
She took the folder. “Fine.”
Her note was still in her hand.
She needed to get rid of it before Cole saw.
The Kingsley Suite was behind the blue velvet curtains, where Bellamy’s seated people who had enough money to require privacy and enough ego to expect everyone to know it. Maren had never served that room. Staff whispered about it. Corporate acquisitions happened there. Divorce settlements. Secret proposals. Quiet betrayals with thousand-dollar wine.
She stepped through the curtain and saw five people seated around a round table.