Page 89 of Gone Tonight
He folds his arms. “Where are you from?”
“Me? Pennsylvania, but I—”
“Whatnewspaperare you from? Who sent you?” He’s almost shouting.
“I’m not—”
The waiter approaches with my meal, then stops short a few feet away.
“You can stay until you’ve finished your dinner, but if you bother any of my staff or any customers, I’m calling the police.”
He storms off.
I stare after the manager in complete bewilderment as the waiter slips the pizza dish onto the table, then hurries away, too.
I watch as the manager talks to the waiter, gesturing and shooting a dirty look in my direction.
I stare back at them, blinking in confusion. My interaction with the manager was so bizarre it feels almost like a disjointed dream. I’m left trying to make sense of the pieces. He seemed to have known who I was talking about. But his reaction was so extreme, it’s as if my mother personally hurt him.
What did she do?
The closer I get to her truth, the more alien and hostile the world seems.
My entire body is gripped by uncontrollable trembling. I want to call the manager back and explain I’m the daughter of the woman he’s so angry with, but what if that only incites him more?
The waiter swings by my table and sets down my bill and walks away without a word. It’s a clear message, especially considering I’ve yet to take a bite of food: I’m not welcome here.
I can’t bring myself to leave, though. This restaurant is the closest connection I have to my mother’s past.
The manager isn’t trying to hide the fact that he’s watching me from across the floor. I won’t be able to talk to anyone else with him around. Maybe I can wait in the parking lot until other staff members leave and show them my mother’s photo.Someonehas to be able to tell me the truth.
Movement catches my eye. The hostess is leading another single diner, a man wearing a baseball cap, to a two-top table not far from mine. He’s so chiseled he looks as if he is carved out of marble. I can see a tattoo on his arm, though it isn’t a colorful, artistic symbol like Ethan wears. This man’s tattoo is composed of a blue-black hue and it looks amateurish.
The man is acting appropriately. He sits down and toys with his silverware as he gazes around the restaurant. Yet I find myself edging away until I’m pressed against the far side of my booth, angling into a position where I’m shielded by a family sitting at a table between us so he can’t see me.
When the man looks down at his menu, I peek out again and let my eyes travel over him. I feel helpless to stop looking at him. I take in the thick twin deltoids rising up in the space between the top of his shoulders and his tortoiseshell glasses, and his long, shaggy black hair flowing out from beneath his hat.
Then I stare more closely at the royal blue baseball cap he’s wearing. There’s a logo or something on it I can’t quite see. It looks like a cartoon character, or maybe an animal.
I lift up my phone and pretend to be looking at my messages. In actuality, I navigate to the camera function and enlarge my view until it zeroes in on that blue baseball cap.
My hand is still trembling so hard it takes a moment to zero in on the image. When I do, I see it isn’t a cartoon character. I was right the second time—it’s an animal.
A panther.
I stare at the big golden cat, the skin around his mouth stretched back to reveal his fangs, his claws outstretched as if he’s poised to attack.
A panther. Blue and gold.
My mouth goes dry. It can’t be a coincidence.
That’s the mascot for my mother’s old high school.
This guy must have kids who currently attend it—or maybe hegraduated from there. He could have known my mother. He looks to be of her generation.
I’m still holding up my camera and gazing at the image on my screen when the man turns his head slightly and stares directly into my eyes through the camera lens, like he knows I’m watching him.
I immediately duck my head and drop my phone back into my purse and slip the strap over my shoulder, feeling a chill run through me.
