“Get up. You’re leaving.”
PART 2
He hauled me out of the chair.
His fingers dug into my arm through the thrift-store jacket, hard enough to leave a mark.
“Hunter, please,” said Noelia.
“He hasn’t done anything!”
“Hunter, stop!”
He ignored her.
He pulled me past the empty tables, past the plaque, past my mother’s photograph, and with every step I thought, This is my floor.
This is my carpet.
I laid it myself in 2013.
The loose sole of my left shoe caught the edge of that carpet, and I stumbled sideways, turning toward the hostess counter.
And that was when I saw something strange.
An elderly woman was standing at the register, in a lavender cardigan, with her purse over her arm, holding out her credit card.
Krista, who had hurried back to her post, accepted it with a bright smile.
But rather than push it into the restaurant’s terminal, she dipped her hand below the counter.
