Page 1 of The Witness

Chapter 1

Sabrina

“You take me to all the best places, Lewis,” I said with a smile more brittle than spun sugar.

I scooted into the cracked red vinyl booth across the table from FBI Special Agent Lewis Wright. I tucked my purse and small backpack under the dingy table. Overhead, fluorescent lights hummed, and the smell of stale coffee lingered in the air. A limp plastic Christmas wreath hung behind the long eat-at counter, the only attempt at seasonal decorations.

The Oceanfront Diner wasn’t anywhere near the ocean. In fact, the closest body of water was the stormwater retention pond between its parking lot and the highway off-ramp. The diner epitomized the idea of a bad greasy spoon joint from its black and white linoleum floor in need of mopping to the water-stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling.

“Somewhere quiet is best in your situation.” Lewis’s serious tone and deadpan expression didn’t make me feel better. “You took an Uber, right?”

I nodded.

Special Agent Lewis Wright was the only person I knew in law enforcement. We’d gone on one date years ago and realized that we both liked good food but shared no romantic spark. Such was dating in your forties. The only reason I’d saved his phone number was to text him when I learned about cool food events in Miami. He’d attended a few of them and we’d always said hello. When I couldn’t live with what I’d seen on that boat and I decided to tell the authorities, Lewis was the first and only person I had to contact. My story wasn’t something you told a stranger.

“I want out of this situation as fast as possible. Please tell me that can happen.” When I’d called Lewis a few days ago, I’d never imagined it would lead me here to a shitty diner on the far west side of Miami waiting to get picked up by witness protection. That’s what I get for doing the right thing.

“Sabrina, I won’t make you any promises that I can’t keep.”

“Sure, I get that.” The grimace on my face had to betray how I felt. Telling him what I’d witnessed was about to ruin my life. But not calling him would have made me hate myself—eaten away at my soul. It had already started; the nightmares weren’t getting better.

The classic catch twenty-two. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

“You’re doing the right thing. He killed that woman. And frankly, you need to be protected.”

“I should never have taken that stupid catering job. Definitely not worth the money.” I swiped a knuckle under my eye to keep a tear from falling and stilled my bouncing foot under the table.

“You’re opening a restaurant; all jobs are important, even a little one.” His sympathy made me want to flip over the table and scream. It was only slightly better than crying.

“Am I starting a new restaurant?” I hated how whiny I sounded. “Witness protection is a big stumbling block between me and opening day for Viande.”

“It’s temporary.” Lewis reached across the table, pushing our sweating plastic glasses of water aside to take my hand.

I swallowed hard, pushing down the lump of frustration in my throat. Life was so unfair.

“Morning, folks, can I take your order?” The server rummaged in his ratty burgundy apron for a pad and pen, not bothering to make eye contact with us. He was fifty-something years old with a potbelly and a bad comb-over.

I slipped my hand off the tabletop and into my lap. Lewis reached for his plastic-coated menu. He glanced down at the faded print.

“Any specials?” Food wasn’t what I wanted. I’d rather crawl back in bed and hide from life. But I’d go through the motions. It was one way to stay sane. A bit of normalcy in a day that was out of control.

“Sure. The breakfast casserole.” The server shrugged, his expression dubious, like you’d be risking Listeria if you chose the special.

“Casserole works for me. Keep the coffee coming,” Lewis said, returning his menu.

“For you?” The server pointed at me with a pen that had a chewed plastic cap on one end. Gross.

“Two eggs poached. One slice of buttered white toast. Dry if you don’t have real butter.” It was the meal my mom would make for me when I got sick as a kid. It was about the only thing I might manage to eat this morning. If I’d ever needed comfort food, it was today.

“Got it. Any meat?” The server pointed again with his nasty pen.

I shuddered to think what a place like this would do to bacon or sausage.

“No, thank you.” I passed him my menu and took a sip of my water. I wasn’t a food snob, but any professional chef had a certain level of expectations, even at a greasy spoon.

The server, who’d not bothered to introduce himself, turned on his heel and headed for the swinging doors leading into the kitchen, ripping off our order sheet as he walked.

I’d started out in a kitchen not much different from the one behind those doors—a summer job washing dishes. Short order cooking was an art, a combination of efficiency and timing that, when done well, turned out vast quantities of delicious simple food. I was doubtful this chef was going to impress me with his artistry.

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