Page 36 of The Rook’s Obsession

He glances at me, then turns back to the road. “There’s a difference between Vincenzo and me.”

“What’s that?”

“He gave you a purpose. I’m trying to give you a choice.”

I can’t respond to that. I can’t find the words, and I’m not sure I could form them in my mouth, anyway. I turn back to the window and watch the trees blur past, and I let those words sit in me. They hurt. Not because they’re cruel, but because they might be true.

A choice. The concept is almost foreign. Vincenzo never offered choices. He offered instructions and framed them as opportunities. Obedience disguised as loyalty. Every door he opened led exactly where he wanted me to go.

Nick is offering something different. The freedom to decide. The terrifying possibility of deciding wrong.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the window. The glass is cool against my temple. The car moves forward, carrying me toward a future I can’t see and away from a past I can’t trust.

NICK

The diner smells like burned coffee and bacon grease, and I’ve never been happier to see a plate of eggs in my life.

We’ve been on the road since before eight o’clock, and it’s now past noon. Neither of us ate much this morning beyond the gas station protein bars from last night. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stay in that car without something to break things up. She hasn’t brought up Vincenzo since our conversation earlier, but I can see her chewing on it. Literally. She’s been grinding her teeth on and off for the last hour.

The diner is a roadside place off the highway, the kind with vinyl booths and a bell that jingles when you open the door. We took a booth near the back, where she can see the entrance and I have a clear line of sight to the kitchen. Neither of us discussed this. We just did it. Muscle memory from two people who’ve spent too much time watching doors.

She’s digging into her own eggs, bacon, and heavily buttered grits. If I wasn’t so hungry myself, I might pay closer attention to the way she eats. In a hurry, like there’s no time to savor a single bite. She looks like a woman with other things to do, which she is. Not that I’m much more relaxed.

I’m halfway through my eggs when she goes completely still. Not the normal kind, like she’s quiet and thinking. Instead, it’s the kind where every muscle in her body locks into place and her eyes fix on a single point. She’s locked in on a target.

I take a sip from my coffee, which I can no longer taste. “What?” I ask in a low voice.

“Don’t look at the door.”

Of course, the first thing I want to do is look at the door. I don’t. Instead, I keep my eyes on my plate and pick up a piece of toast. “Tell me.”

“A pair of men just walked in. One of them has a double-headed eagle tattoo on his neck.”

The toast folds in the fist my hand has tightened into around it. “Russo ink?”

“It’s the symbol of Vincenzo’s personal guard. Every one of them gets that tattoo when they’re inducted. It’s not something you’d get on a whim at a parlor. Custom work, always done by the same artist.”

She picks up her coffee and takes a sip while tracking movement over the rim of her cup. “They haven’t spotted us yet. They’re scanning the room.”

“How far from the door?”

“Fifteen feet. Standing by the register. The hostess is talking to them.”

I run the layout in my head. The front door is the obvious exit. The kitchen will have a back door, since every commercial kitchen has one, thanks to fire code requirements. The hallway to the restrooms probably runs along the back wall, and the kitchen entrance will be near it.

“Restroom hallway,” I murmur. “The kitchen will be past it.”

“I know.” She sets her coffee down and slides out of the booth in one smooth motion, like all she’s doing is heading to the bathroom on a normal afternoon. I drop two twenties on the table and follow her.

The hallway is narrow and smells like industrial cleaner. The restroom doors are on the left. At the end of the hall, a swinging door leads into the kitchen, where a cook in a stained apron looks up from the grill with the expression of a man who’s seen stranger things than two people walking through his workspace.

“Back door,” I grunt.

He points with his spatula. We’re through the kitchen and out the rear exit in under ten seconds, emerging into a gravel lot behind the diner where the dumpsters sit baking in the afternoon sun. Our car is parked alongside the building. I have the keys out before we reach it.

“They’ll know we left,” she points out as she slides into the passenger seat.

“Not if they’re still scanning the dining room. We’ve got maybe two minutes before they figure it out.” I start the engine, pull out of the lot, and take the first turn back toward the highway without flooring it. Peeling out of a parking lot is a great way to attract the attention of everyone within a quarter mile.