Page 27 of Carved

"I'll get your order started," she says finally, stepping back from the table. But her eyes never leave my face, and there's something in her expression that suggests this conversation is far from over.

I watch her walk toward the kitchen, noting the way she checks the other tables without seeming to hurry, the easy competence of someone who's good at taking care of people. But there's something else in her movements now—a heightened awareness, like she's suddenly more conscious of my presence in her space.

She knows I'm watching her. More than that, she knows there's something significant about my being here, even if she can't name what it is.

When she returns with my coffee refill, she moves differently. Still professional, still careful, but with the particular alertness of someone who's recognized something familiar and is trying to place it.

"Your order should be ready in a few minutes," she says, topping off my cup. "Rosie likes to take her time with the skillets."

"No rush."

She starts to turn away, then pauses, studying my hands where they rest on the table. "You work construction?"

The question catches me off guard. "What makes you ask?"

"Your hands. Calluses in specific places, small scars from tools. My dad…." She hesitates, then continues more carefully. "I know what construction workers' hands look like."

It's a reasonable observation, and partially true. But there's something in the way she's looking at me that suggests she's putting together pieces of a puzzle I can't see.

"Among other things," I say.

She nods slowly, like I've confirmed something she suspected. "There was a construction crew working near our neighborhood last week. Street repairs, I think. Lots of trucks coming and going."

The casual comment shouldn't mean anything, but the way she says it—like she's testing a theory—makes my chest tighten. Because she's right. I have been in her neighborhood, watching, learning Jenkins's patterns. But she shouldn't be able to connect that to me sitting in her café.

"Small world," I manage.

"Isn't it?" But her tone suggests she doesn't think this is a coincidence at all. "Sometimes you see the same faces in different places and don't realize it until later. Like your brain is trying to tell you something important."

Before I can respond, the kitchen bell chimes, and she moves away to collect my order. When she returns with my breakfast skillet, she sets it down with the same professional efficiency, but there's curiosity in her eyes now.

"You seem pretty smart," I say, cutting into the eggs. "Are you in school, or is this keeping you too busy?"

She refills my coffee, and I catch a flash of something—pride, maybe, or surprise that I'm interested. "Senior year. It's manageable."

"Aren’t you a little young?” I can’t help but blurt it.Sixteen.

“Oh, I’m a regular genius. Just call me Doogie. I skipped fourth grade and everything.”

“Still, senior year's tough. College applications and all that." I keep my tone casual, conversational. "Is college something you’re interested in?"

"State school, probably. It's what I can afford." The words come out clipped, matter-of-fact. I hear the defensiveness underneath.

"What do you want to study?"

Her posture changes slightly, straightening with something that might be excitement or determination. "Psychology. Maybe criminal psychology, specifically."

The irony isn't lost on me. I take another bite of hash browns, processing. "That's ambitious. What draws you to it?"

"Understanding why people do things." She glances around the café, making sure her other tables don't need attention. "Why they hurt people. Why they choose violence when there are other options."

The way she says it, careful but intense, tells me this isn't academic curiosity. This is personal research.

"Heavy subject matter," I observe.

"Someone has to understand it." Her voice carries a weight that seems too old for sixteen. "If we don't understand why people become monsters, how can we stop them?"

Monsters. The word sits between us, loaded with implications neither of us can address directly. But I can see in her eyes that she knows exactly what kind of monster she's livedwith. And she's planning to spend her life studying people like him.