By two, I was back at the diner. Because the mortgage didn’t care about tragedy.
I brought Hope with me. Denise had told me not to leave her with anyone I didn’t trust—and trust had become a very short list.
My boss, Lena, took one look at the baby carrier behind the register and said, “You have exactly thirty seconds before you tell me what on earth happened.”
I told her enough.
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Jodi.”
“I know.”
At around four, the bell above the diner door rang.
I was pouring coffee for a trucker in booth six. Hope was asleep beside the pie case.
That’s when I saw him.
Andy.
He looked young—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four—but grief had aged him, left him looking unfinished.
He stood just inside the door, holding a baseball cap in both hands.
His eyes went to Hope first.
Then to me.
“Hi, Jodi,” he said.
Every nerve in my body reacted before I could speak.
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Andy.”
He looked wrecked. Not dangerous. Just… broken.
“I loved your daughter,” he said.
The diner seemed to quiet around us in that strange way busy places sometimes do when your world shifts.
Lena silently took the coffee pot from my hand.
I pointed to the back booth. “Sit down.”
He sat like a man waiting for judgment.
