Page 3 of Roulette

I pushed through Patsy’s front door a few minutes after seven. The bell jingled overhead, and the smell hit me right away -- bacon grease and burnt coffee, the particular sour-sweet note of yesterday’s pie sweating under plastic wrap, and underneath it all, the heavy smell of a place that had been cooking for thirty years and didn’t plan to stop anytime soon. The jukebox in the corner sat untouched. Nobody bothered with it before noon.

The breakfast crowd was thin. An older couple sat in the first booth, the man reading a newspaper folded into quarters, his wife buttering toast with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who wasn’t in a hurry. Two guys in work shirts at the counter, halfway through their eggs, talking quietly about a job site. I headed for my usual stool at the far end, back to the wall, facing the door. Habit. I could see the entire room from there without turning my head.

Lark was behind the counter, reaching for the coffeepot. She didn’t look up when I came in. That part was expected. Everything else was not.

Her posture had gone too high and tight, like she was listening for something behind her. She checked the door twice in the five seconds it took her to grab the pot -- quick glances most people would miss. Her hand trembled when she poured, the coffee sloshing just enough to leave a dark ring on the Formica. She wiped it with her sleeve without looking at it.

I set my mug down. Her gaze found mine for half a second, then slid away to the kitchen pass-through. I’d been coming here long enough to know her baseline -- the efficient movement between tables, the reliable cadence of her steps, the smile that came and went depending on how tired she was. Today, that cadence was broken. She was working the coffee station like it was a shield, staying close to the kitchen where Dave’s voice and the hiss of the grill filled the room.

She refilled the older couple’s mugs without being asked. When the man said thank you, she paused for half a beat before answering, like her brain had to translate the words before they reached her mouth. Dark circles were under her eyes. Not one bad night. Older exhaustion.

I drank my coffee and let her work. She came back twice to top me off without me asking, and both times her hand was steadier, but her eyes kept cutting to the door. This wasn’t the casual check of someone working a public-facing job. It was sharper. More specific.

When she brought my plate -- two over easy, wheat toast that Dave had charred at the edges again -- I caught the corner of her mouth twitch. Not quite a smile. Too tired to become one.

“Usual today?” she asked, even though the plate was already in front of me.

“Yeah.”

She nodded and turned away. I ate slowly, keeping the room in view. The work shirts paid and left. A woman came in and sat at the counter, ordered coffee and a Danish to go. Lark took the order, poured the coffee, and when she turned to get the Danish from the display case, she paused for a second, her hand on the glass door, and checked the front window as if she were measuring the street. Then she reached for the pastry, wrapped it, and handed it over with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

I was halfway through my eggs when she came back with the coffeepot. She refilled my mug without asking, and I watched the careful pour. Steadier this time, though tension still lived in her wrist, in the hard line of her mouth.

“Something happen?” I asked.

The question hung between us. She blinked, and for a second I thought she might brush it off completely. Then her gaze dropped to the counter.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

The silence did what silence does. She filled it.

“Got home last night and things weren’t right.” Her voice was clipped, barely above the din. She kept her gaze on the coffeepot handle. “Looked like someone had been inside. Stuff just enough out of place to make sure I noticed.”

“Anything missing?”

“No. That’s the part that…” She stopped. Took a breath. “Everything was still there. I checked twice.”

I drank some coffee, and let the quiet stretch, giving her time to think.

“Probably overreacting,” she said. “Maybe there’s some explanation for it, but the windows were closed and the doors were locked. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’ve learned not to ignore things just because they don’t have a simple explanation,” I said.

She looked at me then. Really looked. Her blue eyes were clear but wary, sharpened by too many easy answers that had turned out to be wrong.

“You lock up when you left for work yesterday?” I asked.

“Yes. Both doors. Deadbolts. I always do.”

I gave a single nod. She stayed with me another second, then glanced at the clock above the register.

“I should get back to it. Meredith’s in the back doing inventory.”

“Go ahead.”

She moved away, coffeepot in hand, and started on the other end of the counter. I finished my eggs. The toast was burnt but I ate it anyway. The coffee had gone cold but I drank it down to the dregs.

When I was done, I left a twenty on the counter for the seven-dollar check and slid off the stool. Lark was at the far table, taking an order from a couple who’d just come in. She didn’t look over when I stood. I pushed through the door and the bell jingled behind me, and the morning air was warm and thick with the smell of cut grass from somebody’s lawn down the block.