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“Fuck it.” I put the bottle back down and grab up the paper, half expecting it to be a phone number when I unfold it. It wouldn’t be the first time some customer left me his digits scribbled beneath some cliché pick-up line.

But there’s no phone number.

The little chill turns to ice in my veins. I frantically look around—still just us in the bar.

Who sat here? It’s the farthest table from the bar, tucked against the far wall. I served so many people tonight, I can barely remember the last customer I spoke with.

It was a guy. I remember that much. He never looked up when I came over, he just kept swiping through his phone. He ordered one beer, and he never finished it.

I can’t recall anything else about him. His voice, or what he looked like, other than he was wearing a leather jacket. But hell, a lot of guys in here wore leather jackets.

A tattoo. I remember that—a snake that coiled up from his collar and around his neck. But that’s it.

I look back at the paper.

My stomach twists as the paper crinkles beneath my grip.

It could be a message for anyone, not just me. No one knows I’m here. Megan doesn’t even know where I am.

This message has to be just some random scribble.

It has to.

I bring it to the trash can, carrying it like it’s covered in poison. Just as it lands in the can, the words flash at me once more. Taunting me.

Four hastily written words:Time to go home.

“Thanks, Robby.” I lift the plates of pancakes and scrambled eggs from the pass-through and fill my tray with table two’s breakfast order.

The aroma of bacon sizzling away on the grill wafts through, and my stomach tightens. It’s been non-stop since I got in this morning at seven, and my stomach is getting angrier by the moment.

Usually, on Saturday mornings after closing the Dive Bar the night before, I’d be working on four hours of sleep. I’m not that lucky today.

That stupid scribbled note kept me up all night. When I got home, I searched my apartment three times before I finally convinced myself no one was hiding under the pull-out bed. The rest of the night, I stared at the ceiling, reminding myself that there is no way anyone could find me.

“Can I get more coffee when you get a chance?” The woman at table two pushes her empty mug toward me after I pass out the plates of buttery pancakes, fluffy scrambled eggs, and greasy, salty hash browns.

I really need to eat something soon.

“Of course. Be right back with it.” When I turn to head back to the kitchen, I bump into someone. Or maybe something, because it’s basically like walking into a wall. I bounce back a step and grab the table to keep from falling on my ass.

Big hands grab my arms, steadying me.

“Crap. Sorry, hun.” Marybeth, the hostess this morning, chimes in. “We were just passing through.”

I glance up at the massive man standing in front of me, but he steps around me and follows Marybeth to the last booth in the row by the windows before I can get a good look at him.

“Coming through.” Wendy scoots by, carrying a pot of decaf and a Danish muffin.

Coffee. Right.After I top off the coffees at all my tables, I pop into the kitchen.

“Robby, tell me you have some bacon I can have.” I lean against the counter while he works the grill.

“Karl made you a sandwich.” He jerks his head to the counter behind him where a delicious bacon sandwich is waiting for me. “He could hear your stomach from here.”

I grimace. “Sorry.”

“You need to take better care of yourself.” Robby is asixty-two-year-old man who acts way grumpier than he has any right to be.