“As a hostess?”
“Yes.”
He slid a photograph across the desk.
A red dress lay against a pale background, elegant enough to belong to someone whose life contained occasions.
I did not touch it.
“Why me?”
“Because you notice people.”
Below us, the scarred man looked up toward the dark office window.
For the first time all night, he looked uneasy.
Enzo followed my gaze.
“Those men won’t bother you again.”
When I returned to the bar, Marco pushed the employment folder toward me.
Beneath it lay a separate guest list for the anniversary.
Beside my name, in Enzo’s handwriting, were three words.
Keep beside me.
I stared at them longer than I should have.
Then I looked toward the office.
Enzo was still standing behind the glass.
And although I couldn’t see his expression, I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was watching to see what I would do next.
I folded the guest list.
Put it in my apron.
And decided I would ask him about it tomorrow.
That was my first mistake.
My second was believing I had until tomorrow.
At eleven forty-three, the man with the scar returned.
This time, he came alone.
He approached the bar while I was counting receipts.
“Clara Bennett,” he said.
My hands stopped moving.
I had never told him my last name.
“Excuse me?”
“Your mother still lives on Hawthorne Street?”
A terrible coldness spread through my stomach.
“Who are you?”
He smiled.
“Someone who remembers your father.”
My father had died when I was eleven.
At least, that was what my mother had told me.
A construction accident.
A closed casket.
A funeral attended by six people.
The stranger placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“Tell your boss that Victor Sloane says hello.”
Then he walked out.
I stood frozen until Marco called my name.
When I finally looked down, I noticed something written on the bill.
Not a phone number.
Not a message.
A date.
November 14, 2015.
