Page 68 of Corrupting Ivy

Inspire others.

I threw the card back into the drawer. These things were garbage. Why do I even look at them anymore? They never help me.

How was I supposed toinspireanyone? I lived in a loft above a diner, in a town I ran away to, and barely made enough money to feed myself. Hell, I even needed to go downstairs and get some free breakfast. I was a goddamn charity case.

Then, to top it all off, the man I thought had things together pulled a knife on me in his sleep and damn near killed me.

Inspirational?

Not in the slightest.

I slipped on my shoes and headed downstairs, ready to eat away some sorrow.

The diner wasn’t as busy as I expected. It was a little on the slow side. Maybe because they caught the killer, and the tourists were no longer interested. I shook off the thought. There’s no way that Otis killed those women… I kinked my head to the side. But no one suspected Dean Corll as he ran his candy shop, killing little kids. Not even Bundy. You just never know.

I slipped behind the counter and made my way into the kitchen, where Walter flipped pancakes and eggs.

“Hi, Mr. Jensen.”

He looked me up and down, then went back to the shredded hash browns, browning on the flat surface.

“Ivy. Are you looking for some breakfast?”

“Yes, sir.” I nodded and grabbed a to-go box, feeling like I was in line for the soup kitchen.

Even after all these months, the feeling never left. I felt like a moocher, someone that couldn’t afford to pay her way, and looked for handouts. But I didn’t want any of that. I just wanted to make it on my own.

Walter held his hand out and tossed in the fresh hash browns.

“You okay? You’re looking a little rough.”

Leave it to him to be blunt. “I’m fine. Nothing your pancakes and coffee can’t fix.”

He chuckled to himself, his shoulders bouncing as he laughed. “I take it you want some pancakes too?”

“If you have some extra and wouldn’t mind?” I grimaced.

“It’s here when you need it, Ivy. You know this.”

I nodded, then rolled my ankle back and forth with discomfort.

“I know. Thank you.”

“Was that Spence Randall I saw rushing out of your place this morning?”

“Nothing gets past anyone in this town,” I said, looking away from him, frowning. “How do you see anything happening back here in this kitchen?”

He bobbed his head to a rhythm only he could hear. “I don’t stay back here all the time.” He turned and pointed the metal spatula at me. “Besides, it was hard to miss him slamming his truck door just outside my windows.” He sighed. “You just have to be careful around him. I’ve known that man since he was a boy, and he’s been through more than you could even imagine.”

I swallowed the tight ball forming in my throat. Too late, Mr. Jensen. I’ve already learned the hard way.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Walter finished loading my box of food with all the breakfast goodies I could think of. Then I walked back out. The diner was near empty, about five people sat in the corner humming with conversations. A few locals gave me a side-eye look that I didn’t quite understand.

I rubbed my forehead and frowned.

Was there something on my face?

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