If you haven't read part 19, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.It's Sunday. The library is closed. I'm clearing tables at the coffee shop when then hair on the back of my neck rises. My hands pause before I think—the lunch rush demands that I collect dishes and wipe tables in haste—and I look out the window. I tell myself that not every black limousine in the city belongs to Mr. Hale. Despite this, my fingers fumble the cups and saucers and my heart rate increases.
It might not be him. It isn't him.It can't be him.
I push my cart full of dirty dishes to the kitchen and start loading the dishwasher. My hands are shaking so badly that I drop three plates in a row. The third shatters on the floor, pieces skittering across the tile. It's quite metaphoric, I think.
Carrie's concerned face appears in my peripheral vision. I turn my head.
"Y'alright?" she asks.
"Fine, sorry," I say, swallowing the bile that rises with the word. "I'll clean it up."
I volunteer for dishwasher duty during lunch rush. I'm considered an odd bird for wanting to be up to my elbows in dirty dishes, but no one complains.