Page 6 of Preacher

“Stairs.” He dragged the word out slow, like he was tasting it for honesty.

“Yep. Stairs. Hate ’em. Real menace to society.” I grabbed an apron off the hook and looped it over my head, keeping my bruise turned away from him. “You want me on tables or dishes?”

Lamar set the receipts down. I could feel him staring at the side of my face, and the silence stretched long enough that I finally caved and turned fully around.

He was a big man. Mid-fifties, salt-and-pepper beard, arms like he wrestled bears in his spare time. But his eyes were the kind that had seen too much, and right now, they were aimed at me with the precision of a sniper.

“Stairs,” he repeated.

“Stairs.”

“And the orange paint on your face?”

I touched my jaw self-consciously. “Foundation. It’s, uh, Maria’s.”

“Hmm-hmm.” He pulled the glasses off and folded them, setting them carefully aside like he was buying himself time to think. “Trent.”

“Lamar.”

“You in trouble?”

“No.” The word came out too fast. I cleared my throat. “I’m fine. Really. Just clumsy.”

He held my gaze for a long moment. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me. But I want you to know that whatever kind of trouble you’re in, my door is open. My couch pulls out. My shotgun is loaded. You understand me?”

I nodded, because if I tried to speak, I was going to cry, and I’d cried enough in the last twenty-four hours to last me the rest of the year.

“Good.” He stood, patted my shoulder once, then jerked his chin toward the dining room.

“Tables. And drink some water. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

“Yes, sir.” Instead, I poured some coffee and took a sip then left the mug by the sink.

I didn’t exhale until I was out of the kitchen and behind the counter, pulling the order pad from my apron pocket with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. The breakfast rush was already trickling in—Mr. Henderson at his usual booth, the two old ladies who split a single short stack and argued about syrup, a couple of guys in coveralls hunched over coffee.

Normal. Boring. Safe.

I clung to it like a life raft.

Halfway through pouring Mr. Henderson’s third refill, the bell over the door jingled, and I glanced up out of habit.

The coffee pot nearly slipped out of my hand.

Preacher stood just inside the doorway, blue bandana traded for a black one, those frozen-whiskey eyes already locked on me like he’d known exactly where I’d be. Crowbar followed him in, toothpick rolling between his teeth.

The diner went quiet. Not all at once. Just a slow ripple, conversations dying off table by table as people clocked who’d just entered.

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat. “Son, you’re overflowing my cup.”

“Sorry!” I yanked the pot back, dabbing at the saucer with a napkin that immediately turned brown. My pulse was hammering so hard I could feel it in the bruise.

Preacher’s mouth tilted up at one corner. Not a smile, exactly. More like an acknowledgment. He gestured to the empty booth in my section, the one farthest from the door, and slid in like he owned the place.

Maybe he did. I wasn’t ruling anything out anymore.

Lamar appeared at my elbow, his voice low. “Friends of yours?”

“No,” I whispered.