The private investigator showed up on a Thursday.
He looked like someone had ordered “generic authority figure” online.
Mid-forties. Close-cropped brown hair. Suit a little too nice for Exit 19. Clean shoes that hadn’t seen much actual mud. A leather folder tucked under one arm.
He walked in around six in the morning, when the sky outside had just started to pink at the edges and the diner was in that in-between lull—truckers gone, commuters not yet arrived.
The bell chimed.
Rae looked up from where she was wiping the counter.
Her skin prickled.
Some people just had a presence that changed the air in a room.
This guy had it.
He scanned the place in one sweep.
His gaze snagged on the TV, where a news anchor was doing a piece on a political scandal. The small box in the corner still ran the “missing financier” graphic on the half hour.
His eyes flicked to it.
Then to her.
Then to the corner booth.
Empty.
He chose a stool at the counter.
Rae grabbed a menu, plastered on her neutral, can-I-help-you smile.
“Morning,” she said. “Coffee?”
“Please,” he said.
His voice was smooth.
Urban.
Not local.
She poured.
He pulled a photo from his folder and slid it across the counter without preamble.
“Recognize him?” he asked.
Her heart stuttered.
She forced herself to look.
It was the same headshot the news trotted out.
Suit.
Clean-shaven.
Corporate lighting.
ALASTAIR GRAY smiled up at her, frozen mid-charm.
She stared at his face like she’d never seen it before.
“Yeah,” she said lightly. “He’s on TV every ten minutes. Hard to miss.”
The investigator’s lips quirked.
“True,” he said. “But I mean in person.”
She lifted a shoulder.
“Can’t say I run in those circles,” she said. “We don’t get a lot of hedge funders off Exit 19. Mostly truckers and the occasional lost family looking for a cleaner bathroom than the gas station.”
“You never know where people might pop up,” he said mildly.
He slid a business card next to the photo.
DANIEL KLINE KLINE INVESTIGATIONS NYC
“Dan Kline,” he said. “I’m working with the Gray family. We’re checking in on businesses along this stretch. Gas stations, motels. Diners. In case anyone’s seen something they didn’t realize was… him.”
He didn’t say *in case anyone’s been feeding him pie under the table.*
He didn’t have to.
Rae’s hand tightened around the coffee pot handle.
She set it down before she cracked it.
“Can’t imagine he’d pick here,” she said, keeping her tone wry. “Our Yelp reviews are mixed at best.”
“Sometimes people choose… under the radar,” he said. “Somewhere that feels… anonymous.”
He stirred sugar into his coffee, eyes never leaving her face.
“All-night diner off the interstate,” he said. “It’s a perfect… nowhere.”
Her skin crawled.
“You mind if I put up a flyer?” he asked, pulling a glossy sheet from his folder.
It had the same photo. The reward amount had climbed again.
$750,000.
Her stomach lurched.
She swallowed.
“Sure,” she said. “We’ve got a corkboard by the bathrooms. Lost pets, garage sales, eternal missing billionaires.”
He smiled faintly.
“Appreciate it,” he said.
She took the flyer.
Her hand trembled only a little.
“Anything unusual happen here last few months?” he asked casually. “New regulars. People passing through who started… sticking around.”
Her mind flashed through faces.
Tourists.
Truckers.
That one guy who’d tried to smoke in the bathroom and got banned.
Noah.
Her throat tightened.
“You work nights,” he said. “You see things.”
“Mostly drunk people and bad decisions,” she said. “About once a week someone proposes to someone else over hash browns. I try not to judge.”
He chuckled.
“Love is love,” he said.
“Love is late-night carbs and regret,” she corrected.
He sipped his coffee.
“Nothing else?” he pressed. “Someone who… doesn’t fit.”
She feigned thoughtfulness.
“There *is* this one guy,” she said slowly. “Comes in twice a week. Orders pancakes with extra syrup. Talks about his cats. Creeps Jenna out.”
Dan smiled.
“I’ll keep an eye out for pancake guy,” he said.
He waited.
She kept her face open. Amiable.
“I wish I could help,” she said. “It’s… sad. His family… you see them on the news. Must be… hard.”
He studied her.
“You ever watch the news at home?” he asked. “Or you get your fill here?”
“Can’t afford cable,” she said. “I let Lester Holt tell me about the apocalypse while I pour decaf.”
“Smart,” he said.
He finished his coffee.
“Good brew,” he said. “Better than most of the places I’ve hit this week.”
“High praise,” she said.
He stood.
Tucked his card back toward her, even though it was already on the counter.
“If you… remember anything,” he said, “even small… call me. Sometimes the thing that seems trivial is the thread that unravels everything.”
She had to swallow twice before she could speak.
“If I see a billionaire in a booth,” she said, “you’ll be the first to know.”
He regarded her for a heartbeat.
Then nodded.
“Thanks for the coffee, Rae,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“I didn’t… give you my name,” she said, before she could stop herself.
He smiled narrowly.
“Name tag,” he said, tapping his own chest in mimicry.
Her eyes darted down.
The plastic rectangle.
RAE.
Right.
“Have a good day,” he said.
He walked out into the early morning light, suit shoulders solid, folder tucked tight.
The bell chimed behind him.
She stood there, pulse pounding.
“Who was that?” Bob asked, stepping out from the kitchen, wiping his hands.
“PI,” she said. “Working for the Gray family.”
Bob’s face went pale under its usual pink.
“Here?” he said.
She held up the flyer.
“He’s making the rounds,” she said. “Gas stations. Motels. Lucky us.”
Bob swore under his breath.
“You tell him anything?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
He searched her face.
“Rae,” he said quietly. “This is… getting bigger.”
She laughed, brittle.
“Noticed,” she said.
He grabbed the flyer from her and slapped it onto the corkboard by the restrooms, near the lost-dog notices and the community blood drive announcement.
The glossy paper gleamed accusingly.
“You sure about… this?” Bob asked, nodding toward it.
“If we don’t put it up, it looks weird,” she said. “Like we’re… hiding something.”
He grunted.
“Maybe because we are,” he muttered.
Her chest hitched.
“Are we?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Are you?”
She thought of Noah’s hands.
His words.
His fear.
His plea.
I need you to promise me you’ll pick yourself.
“I don’t… know,” she whispered.
Bob sighed.
“You told me once,” he said, “that you believed in… doing right by people who showed up hungry. Wherever they came from. Whatever they were runnin’ from.”
She had.
She still did.
“Sometimes,” he went on, “doing right looks like… a plate of eggs and silence. Sometimes it looks like… a phone call.”
Her eyes stung.
“How do I know which is which?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You don’t,” he said. “You pick a lane. You live with it.”
She stared at the flyer.
ALASTAIR GRAY stared back.
Polished.
Trapped.
A number at the bottom promised money.
A voice in her head—hers, her mother’s, Nia’s, Noah’s—argued.
Duty.
Desire.
Fear.
Hope.
She walked back behind the counter on legs that felt unsteady.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She fumbled it out.
Text from an unknown local number.
> This Dan Kline guy been to the diner yet?
Her stomach dipped.
She typed back.
> Who is this
A beat.
> Sam. Trooper. You make strong coffee. Hard to forget.
Right.
State trooper Sam.
> Yeah
> He was here
> Asking about him
> Showed me the flyer
Dots.
> He came by the barracks too
> Guys are amped
> Thinking they’re gonna crack it
Her chest tightened.
> What do you think?
A pause.
> I think rich folks hire people like him when they want their problems handled quietly
> Cops are for show
> He’s for results
Her palms went damp.
> Be careful Rae
That made her throat close.
> Why?
> You see more than you say
> It’s your job
> Just remember not everyone who asks questions is entitled to your answers
She stared at the screen.
> Why do you care?
> My sister works nights at a diner in the next county
> I see guys like Kline walk in there and my skin crawls
> Money makes people do stupid shit
She swallowed.
> Thanks
> For the nightmare fuel
> And the… heads up
> Just don’t be a hero, okay?
> Heroes die
> Waitresses live forever and tell the stories
She barked out a surprised laugh.
> I’ll keep that in mind
She slid the phone back into her pocket.
Her reflection in the metal coffeepot looked warped.
She straightened her shoulders.
She hadn’t chosen this.
Not really.
He had.
By walking in that night.
By sitting down.
By coming back.
By handing her his name.
His story.
His trust.
She could still choose.
Still pivot.
Still pick up the phone and trade his life for a check and a neat little bow of A Job Well Done.
Her hand drifted, unconsciously, to her apron pocket.
Brushed the worn edges of the folded paper.
Just in case.
The buzzer over the grill sounded.
Order up.
Life went on.
For now.
***
Noah didn’t text her about Dan Kline.
He didn’t have to.
When she told him, three nights later over a crackly phone line from some motel that advertised COLOR TV and AIR CONDITIONING on a faded sign, she could hear the way his breath caught.
“Shit,” he said. “He made it out there.”
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s… thorough.”
“That’s his job,” Noah said grimly. “Dad didn’t hire anyone second-rate. He never does.”
“You know him?” she asked.
“By reputation,” he said. “He’s the guy people call when they want… discretion. And… plausible deniability.”
Her skin crawled.
“You think he’d… hurt you?” she asked.
“Not physically,” Noah said. “That’s not his style. But he’d… box me in. Legally. Socially. Make it… impossible to exist without the firm. Without them. He’s very good at… removing options.”
“That’s… specific,” she said.
He huffed a humorless laugh.
“I had a front row seat when he took down a competitor once,” he said. “They couched it as… ‘exposing fraud.’ But really, it was about… leverage. About making an example.”
She gripped the phone tighter.
“You’re not a fraud,” she said fiercely.
He was quiet.
“No,” he said. “Just… a runaway.”
“Fuck that,” she snapped. “You’re a man who didn’t want to die in a glass box. That’s not a crime.”
“To them, it is,” he said softly.
The line hummed.
“What did you tell him?” he asked. “Kline.”
“That I hadn’t seen you,” she said. “That billionaires don’t come to Exit 19.”
He let out a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Stop that,” she said, throat tight. “He creeped me out. That’s all.”
“You have good instincts,” he said.
“Everyone keeps saying that,” she muttered. “Like it’s a personality trait.”
“It is,” he said. “And it’s saved my ass more than once.”
She thought of the way she’d steered conversations away from him when Sam was around. Of the way she’d cut the volume on the TV at the right moment more than once.
Her instincts.
His luck.
They were tangled now.
“I don’t know how long I can keep… lying,” she admitted. “Not just to him. To… everyone. Sam. Kelsey. Mace.”
“You haven’t lied to Kelsey,” he said softly.
She blinked.
“What?” she said.
“You told her ‘hypothetically,’” he said. “You never said ‘no.’ You… gave her enough to… guess. That’s… different.”
“You hear everything,” she accused.
“I listen,” he corrected. “Difference.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“I feel like I’m… standing in the middle of crosshairs,” she said. “Like… there’s you. And them. And… me. And I keep… moving… so nobody can get a clear shot. But eventually someone’s… gonna.”
He was silent for a beat.
Then, quietly:
“We can… end it.”
Her heart stuttered.
“What?” she whispered.
“I can… turn myself in,” he said. “Walk into a police station. Call Kline. Give up. Take… the choice off your plate.”
Her chest seized.
“Don’t you dare,” she said instantly.
He huffed a bitter laugh.
“See?” he said. “Crosshairs.”
“You’re not… a problem for me to solve,” she said fiercely. “And you don’t get to martyr yourself to make my life… simpler.”
“Maybe I should,” he said. “I dragged you into this. You didn’t sign up to be… my co-conspirator.”
“I walked into your booth,” she reminded him. “Remember? Sat down. Asked questions. Took your pages. Took your number. That’s on me.”
He swallowed.
“It doesn’t feel… even,” he said.
“Life’s not even,” she said. “Ask literally anyone in this diner. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?” he asked, frustration and longing braided in his voice.
She exhaled.
“The point is… we keep… choosing,” she said slowly. “Week by week. Call by call. Class by class. Until… something makes a different choice for us. And then we… deal.”
He was quiet.
“That’s… terrifying,” he said.
“Welcome to my life,” she said.
He laughed.
She closed her eyes, picturing him wherever he was now—a generic bed, a TV bolted to the wall, his notebook open, pages full of ink.
“I don’t want… you to regret this,” he said softly. “Any of it. Me. The class. The lies. The… hand-holding. The… almost.”
Her breath caught.
He’d never said it so baldly before.
Almost.
As in… the kisses they skirted around.
The touches they let linger a second too long.
The feelings thickening in the space between them.
“Regret’s… not the right word,” she said finally.
“What is?” he asked.
“Afraid,” she admitted. “Hopeful. Annoyed. Turned on. Tired.”
He made a strangled sound.
“Rae,” he said.
“What?” she said, pretending innocence.
“You can’t just… throw ‘turned on’ into a list like that and expect me to function,” he said.
“You asked,” she pointed out.
“I did,” he conceded. “I just… wasn’t expecting… honesty.”
“That’s on you,” she said.
He exhaled.
“Do you ever… touch yourself and think about me?” he asked suddenly.
Her whole body went hot.
“Noah,” she hissed, scandalized.
“What?” he said, unrepentant. “You mentioned ‘turned on.’ My brain… connected dots.”
“You’re on speakerphone,” she lied.
“No, I’m not,” he said, amused.
“Still,” she said, flustered. “You can’t just… ask that.”
“Can’t I?” he said softly. “We’re… already in a mess, Rae. Pretending… we’re not… wanting each other… is the one lie I don’t think I can keep up with.”
Her underwear felt too tight.
She swallowed.
“I…” she started.
“Yes?” he prompted, voice low, rough.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Silence.
She could hear his inhale.
Slow.
Shaky.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“You?” she snapped, defensive. “You’re out there… reading Murakami and writing about your feelings. I’m the one stuck here, wiping down tables, thinking about your stupid hands every time I pick up a fork.”
“My stupid hands,” he repeated, sounding dazed. “They think about you too.”
Desire punched through her.
“That’s anatomically impossible,” she said weakly.
“Everything about this is impossible,” he said. “And yet… here we are.”
She lay back, legs pressing together involuntarily.
“We’re not… doing this,” she said.
“Doing what?” he asked, all faux-innocence.
“Phone sex,” she hissed.
He choked on a laugh.
“To be clear,” he said, “*you* started that.”
“I did not,” she protested. “I was… listing feelings.”
“And you listed ‘turned on’ like it was ‘hungry’ or ‘sleepy,’” he said. “That’s… incredibly unfair.”
“You’re the one who asked if I—”
“Touch yourself and think about me,” he finished for her. “Yeah. I did. And for the record… yes. I… do. Both.”
Her whole body went molten.
She pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum, as if she could physically contain her racing heart.
“Stop,” she whispered.
“You want me to,” he said.
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“Liar,” he murmured.
She made a frustrated sound.
“This is why… slow burn is bullshit,” she said. “All this… build… and nowhere for it to go.”
He exhaled a soft laugh.
“You read slow burn?” he asked.
“Used to,” she said. “Romance novels. Where people take six hundred pages to kiss.”
“And yet…” he said.
“And yet I’m living in one,” she muttered.
He was quiet for a beat.
“Rae,” he said.
“Yeah?” she said.
“When this… blows up,” he said. “When Kline finds me, or the cops close in, or my father has a heart attack on live television… I don’t know what our timeline looks like. For… anything. But I know… one thing I don’t want to regret… is not having… kissed you.”
Her breath caught.
“You haven’t,” she said. “Regretted not kissing me.”
He sighed.
“Every Tuesday,” he said. “And every night in between.”
Something in her, already frayed, snapped.
“Then why… haven’t you?” she demanded. “You’re right there. I’m right here. You’re not… shy. Or… incapable. We’ve had like, ten almosts. Why keep… stopping?”
He hesitated.
“Because…” He exhaled. “Because once I cross that line… everything changes. It stops being… about coffee and confidences and… maybe. It becomes… real. And I wasn’t sure… if I deserved that. If I *could*… show up for that. Without dragging you into my collapse.”
Her eyes stung.
“Idiot,” she whispered.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“And?” she pressed.
“And…” His voice dropped. “Because I didn’t want… kissing me… to be the thing that… made you… pick up the phone. Conflict-of-interest ethics and all that.”
She made a strangled noise.
“You really think kissing you would make me *more* likely to turn you in?” she asked.
He huffed.
“With my track record,” he said, “it’s not an unreasonable fear.”
She laughed, wet.
“I can separate my… morals from my hormones,” she said. “Mostly.”
“Mostly,” he repeated.
The pause that followed simmered.
“Come back,” she said suddenly.
He went very still.
“Rae—” he began.
“Not now,” she said. “Not tomorrow. After… it calms. After I… start class. After… I figure out if I can balance… this and that and… you. But… come back. At some point. Before Kline. Before… everything.”
He inhaled slowly.
“You sure?” he asked.
“No,” she said honestly. “But I want… that regret… less… than all the others.”
He was quiet for a long heartbeat.
“We’ll have to be… careful,” he said finally. “Smarter. No… lingering in doorways. No… unnecessary hand-holding.”
“Less unnecessary,” she corrected. “I’m not giving it up entirely.”
He laughed.
“Deal,” he said.
“And when you do…” she said, heart hammering, mouth dry, “kiss me. So we’re not… stuck… in this almost forever.”
He made a low sound.
“Rae,” he said, voice thick.
“I mean it,” she said, words rushing now. “I don’t want our first—if we even *get* one—to be in some… hospital room. Or… courtroom. Or… whatever. I want it in the diner. Or the parking lot. Or my shitty apartment. Somewhere that’s… ours.”
He swallowed.
“I want that too,” he said roughly.
“Promise me,” she said.
He hesitated.
Then:
“I promise,” he said.
Heat flooded her, mingled with fear.
Promises were dangerous.
They created expectations.
Timelines.
Targets.
But they also… created something else.
Hope.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Outside her window, a siren wailed faintly in the distance.
She imagined it was miles away.
That for now, at least, they were still in the eye of the storm.
On either end of a phone line.
Imagining.
Waiting.
Choosing.
Slowly, stubbornly, burning.
***