Her lips parted.
I shook my head, very slightly.
She put her hand to her throat, and she said nothing.
Noelia came through the swinging door with a tray, and stopped when she saw me.
Twelve hours a week had shrunk her face.
“Sir,” she whispered.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Hunter said—”
“I know what he said.”
“I only want soup.”
She glanced toward the dining room.
She glanced toward the manager’s podium, where Hunter was greeting a table of six with a wide white smile.
Then she set the tray on the nearest chair, and walked to the soup station, and ladled out a bowl.
She was setting it in front of me, with a cup of coffee, when the shadow fell across the table.
“I told you not to come back.”
Hunter’s voice was very soft.
That was the worst part.
The dining room could not hear him, and I could hear every syllable.
