Page 84 of Eyes in the Shadows

The mayor goes on talking and I try to be as small as possible as I get my breathing under control. Meanwhile, my heart is racing and it’s making my whole body feel super weird—like quivering Jello.

“—and we can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for us tonight!” the mayor finishes with a hearty laugh.

“Of course,” Chef Anh replies, his face that same polite mask. “Still gluten free?”

When Chef Anh’s eyes cut to me, mirth sparkling there due to our recent shared commiseration, the mayor follows his look. Then Rossi does.

“Er, yes,” the elderly man replies, squinting a little at me.

I’ve never wanted to be able to disappear more in my life. Not in 8th grade, when I was changing for gym, and Jessica Hill loudly pointed out my first periodstain. Not when my mother told the sales associate that the white prom dress I’d picked out made me look like a “chunky bride.” Not even when I tripped off the bottom step of the bus and four full bags of groceries ripped and everyone watched as I chased a rolling tomato into the street. It’s just not possible to chase things into the street with dignity.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know if we’ve met, Miss…” the mayor—the mayor—says to me, turning bloodshot blue eyes to scan me head to toe.

“Wilson.” It just pops out of my mouth. Fuck. I should have lied. It never occurred to my unconscious brain to lie about my name. I’ve never done it before.

Then I glance at Rossi and I know instantly I’ve done the wrong thing. Again. He hides it quickly, but there’s a flash of recognition.

“Well, I should be getting back to the kitchen. Enjoy your meal, and thanks for coming in tonight,” Chef Anh says, directing his nod first to the mayor and then to me.

The three men part, the mayor leading Rossi away, and I try to swallow the bile climbing into my throat. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Rossi and the mayor sit at a table across the restaurant, and Rossi brings out his phone. He starts tapping away.

My stomach roils, all that rich food not sitting nearly so well anymore.

This is bad. This feels bad. I need to get out of here.

I look down at the little red book with our check. I can practically feel our waiter’s eyes on me, so sneaking away is hardly an option now—especially since Chef Anh came out here to talk to me. I feel pretty confident that, if confronted about skipping out on the check, I’d burst into terrified tears and make a complete spectacle of myself.

I feel completely paralyzed, completely unsure of what to do. At least we’re in public, so it’s not like Rossi has many moves either… right?

I don’t know. I don’t know!

Fuck. Where is Mac?

31

Dimitri

I would never kill someone for so little, either.

James

911 Rossi’s Men @ Rouge Elephant

The text from James has enough information and alarm that I am breaking my rule about driving the speed limit in suburban areas. The police in these places have nothing to do but watch for traffic violations, and it is something too easily avoided to be stupid about. But the situation will occasionally warrant the breaking of a rule.

I park near the entrance, pausing in my car. The exterior is calm, and well-enough lit from the streetlamps on the main road that I can see there are no dangers lurking between buildings. Trees line the back of the lot, shielding it from a neighborhood behind.

I exit my car and look through the large glass windows that serve as exterior walls—so cold, so impractical, but quite helpful in this application—on my way to the entrance. It is late, so many of the tables are empty, but I do spot Eleanor. Her back is to me, but I recognize the color of her hair and the curves of her back.

I do not see James, nor do I see any of Rossi’s men. I must assume James is handling the problem elsewhere. And if that is the case, I know the priority is to remove Eleanor from the situation.

I climb the steps and enter through the glass doors, blowing past the welcome stand—or whatever it is Americans call the dining gatekeepers—and stalk to her table. It is only when I place a hand on her shoulder and her wide, fearful eyes turn to me that I realize something else is going on.

“Eleanor. Come, now,” I say. I see James’s jacket on the chair across from her and lay it over my arm.

“We can’t—the check,” she says, grabbing a long, thin, red booklet sitting in the center of the table.

I heave a sigh. “How much?” I grind out, pulling my wallet from my back pocket.

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