“What exactly are you talking about?”
He wiped his hands on his apron three times before he answered.
“Come in dressed like someone who can’t afford lunch.”
“Don’t tell anyone it’s you.”
“Then you’ll understand.”
“Rolando, if you’ve got something to tell me, tell me.”
“I can’t,” he said, and his eyes slid to the dining room, where Hunter Brenner was counting the register.
“Not yet.”
His words troubled me all night.
I should explain something about Hunter.
He was thirty-eight, tall, handsome, quick with a smile, and I had hired him as general manager three years earlier, when my own long hours had started to catch up with me.
On the first Monday of every month, he put a thick packet of reports on my desk, with yellow tabs showing where to sign, and I signed every one of them without reading.
I trusted him.
