Page 76 of The Reaper
“I already plan to,” Caleb said.
“Good,” Dean said, and for the first time all night, the word wasn’t edged. It held.
23
CALEB
Ileaned back in my chair at Promenade’s dining room, the clink of glasses and murmur of departing guests a soft hum under the candlelight. Meghan had slipped into host mode, just like her mother, Finn had said, and she was a goddamn master. She stood at the door, smiling, hugging every guest goodbye, her laugh bright but her eyes sharp, scanning for threats no one else saw.
She was scared—I knew it, felt it in the way her hand had trembled when she’d shown me the third note—but no one would guess, not with her commanding the room like a general in a chef’s coat.
I watched everyone and everything, my gaze flicking from servers to straggling diners, searching for a flinch, a glance, anything to betray the bastard leaving those notes. The plan I’d laid out for Dean, Trish, and Finn—mapping flow, changing rhythms, setting traps—was bullshit, and I’d known it when I said it. Noise to keep them busy, to give them purpose, when all I needed was to find the bad guy and end him.
Years in the field had taught me: when you’ve got someone to protect, sometimes you give others tasks to chew on, let them feel useful, while you do the real work.
And the real work here? Find the threat. Stop it. Maybe kill it, though I wasn’t sure it was a *him*. Meghan kept saying “he,” but was it?
Dominion Hall’s background checks on her staff had come back clean—Elias’s report, emailed hours ago, showed nothing but a couple of misdemeanors, a DUI from a line cook, a shoplifting charge from a server years back. But my gut screamed staff. Someone with access, someone who moved like they belonged, slipping those cream-colored notes onto the hostess stand like it was nothing. I needed to know who, and why.
The dining room was thinning, the last guests trickling out, Meghan’s smile holding strong as she waved off a couple, her voice warm but her posture taut.
I scanned the staff—Finn, directing bussers with a quick nod; Alba, the hostess, clearing menus; Michael, the server, balancing trays; Carly, refilling water pitchers.
No one flinched, no one’s eyes lingered too long on Meghan or me, no tells of guilt in their movements. They were smooth, practiced, a well-oiled machine under her command. But one of them was a crack, I was sure of it. Someone who knew the rhythm—busy service, distracted close—had slipped in, placed that note during dessert, and vanished.
How?
The cameras hadn’t caught a thing, no alerts on my phone’s live feed, just the quiet hum of a restaurant winding down.
Service ended, the dining room emptying, the air thick with the scent of melted wax and lingering wine. I helped clean up at Finn’s direction, stacking plates, wiping tables, my eyes neverstopping—watching Alba’s quick hands, Michael’s easy stride, Carly’s focused efficiency.
Nothing.
Finn caught my glance, his smirk faint but knowing. “You’re worse than a hawk,” he muttered, tossing a towel over his shoulder. “She’s safe with us, you know.”
I nodded, but didn’t buy it. Safe wasn’t enough. Not until I found the source.
Dean and Trish rose, ready to leave, Dean calling it “taking the first shift” as they stepped out for a walk along the Battery. I knew it was a waste of time—two civilians strolling wouldn’t catch a professional—but I let them go, nodding as Trish squeezed my arm, her smile warm.
“Keep her close,” she whispered, and I felt the weight of her trust.
They left, their laughter fading into the night, and the staff followed soon after, Finn locking the back door with a quick “see you tomorrow.”
Meghan collapsed into a chair, the dining room empty now, her shoulders slumping, the mask finally slipping. Her face was pale, exhaustion and stress carving lines around her eyes.
“You okay?” I asked, crouching beside her, my hand on her knee.
She exhaled, a shaky sound. “Just … tired. Scared. Trying not to be.”
I nodded, my chest tightening at her honesty. “Let’s get you home. Take a shower. Get to bed. You need it.”
She looked at me, eyes searching, then nodded, rising without complaint. We locked up, her hands steady on the bolts, and headed upstairs to her loft, the stairs creaking under our weight.
The space was warm, lived-in, with the faint scent of herbs and polished wood, her world in every detail—cookbooksstacked on a shelf, a single wine glass on the counter. She walked to the bathroom, the door clicking shut, and I heard the shower hiss to life. I sank onto the sofa, pulling my phone to check for updates from Elias. He’d promised to tear into the staff’s lives—bank records, phone logs, social media, anything that might betray a motive.
Nothing yet, just a text:Still digging. Deep.
I was about to reply when the bathroom door opened, and Meghan stepped out, wrapped in a white towel, her skin flushed from the heat, hair damp and curling against her shoulders. My eyes flicked up, heart kicking.
