Page 8 of Carved

The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and Rita looks up from behind the counter with that genuine smile that makes her face light up. She's maybe forty-five, with graying braids always pulled back in a practical ponytail and laugh lines that speak to a life lived with humor despite its hardships.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she says, already reaching for the coffee pot. "Your usual booth's open, honey."

I slide into the back corner booth, the one that gives me clear sightlines to both entrances and the street outside. Old habits. Rita appears with coffee before I've even settled, the cup warm and familiar in my hands.

"You're later than usual tonight," she observes, pulling out her order pad even though she knows I'll want the same thing I always do. "Everything okay?"

"Just finished up a job that ran long," I tell her, which isn't entirely a lie. I'd spent the afternoon making sure Jenkins would be exactly where I needed him tonight. "How's your daughter doing? Still planning on that nursing program?"

Rita's whole face transforms when I ask about Sarah. It's like watching sunshine break through clouds. "She got accepted into the accelerated program at Metro Community College. Starts in January." She pauses, worrying her bottom lip. "It's expensive, but she's been saving every penny from her job at the pharmacy."

"That's wonderful news. She's got a good head on her shoulders." I mean it. I've met Sarah a few times when she's picked up her mother after late shifts. Quiet girl, maybe nineteen, with her mother's kind eyes and a determination that reminds me of someone trying very hard to build something better than what they came from.

"She does. Takes after her mother in all the best ways." Rita's smile dims slightly. "Not like her father, thank God."

I know better than to pry, but Rita's ex-husband has been mentioned in passing before. Always in terms of what he isn't—not reliable, not present, not contributing to the college fund he promised to help with. Some men abandon their families through violence. Others do it through simple neglect, which might be worse in its own quiet way.

"Apple pie tonight?" Rita asks, changing the subject with practiced ease.

"Please. And make it a big slice. It's been a long week."

She chortles. "For you, always."

Rita heads back to the counter, and I watch her move with the efficient grace of someone who's spent decades on her feet, taking care of other people.

The diner is quieter than usual for a Friday night. An elderly couple shares a piece of chocolate cake at the counter. A trucker sits alone with his coffee and a newspaper. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that three blocks away, Officer Harry Jenkins is working his way through his fourth beer at Murphy's Tavern with three of his fellow boys in blue.

The man's lack of imagination makes it easier than it ought to be to track him.

Friday nights, Jenkins meets his crew at Murphy's after their shift ends. They drink too much, tell stories about theirglory days, and complain about judges who are "too soft" and lawyers who "don't understand real police work." It's the kind of bonding ritual that turns individual corruption into group identity.

Tonight, Jenkins is more wound up than usual.

The Carver case is eating at him, making him drink faster and talk louder than normal.

Perfect conditions for what I need to do.

Rita returns with the pie—a generous wedge of golden crust and perfectly spiced apples that makes my mouth water just looking at it. She's added a small scoop of vanilla ice cream without being asked, the way she always does when she thinks I look tired.

"On the house," she says when I raise an eyebrow at the ice cream. "You look like you could use a little sweetness in your life."

The kindness in her voice catches me off guard. Rita has no idea who I am, what I've done, what I'm planning to do tonight. To her, I'm just Kent—quiet, polite, tips well, always asks about her daughter. A regular customer who treats her with respect in a job where that's rarer than it should be.

"That's very kind of you, Rita. Thank you."

"Don't mention it, honey." She refills my coffee cup, then glances around the nearly empty diner. "Mind if I sit for a minute? My feet are killing me, and the dinner rush was brutal tonight."

"Of course." I gesture to the seat across from me, genuinely pleased by her company.

Rita slides into the booth with a small sigh of relief, kicking off her sensible shoes under the table.

"Better?" I ask.

"Much. Lord, I don't know how much longer these old bones can keep up with double shifts." She wraps her hands around her own coffee cup, using it to warm fingers that have been handling ice water and cold plates all day. "But Sarah's tuition isn't going to pay itself."

I take a bite of the pie, savoring the perfect balance of tart and sweet. Rita makes the best apple pie in the city, though I'd never tell her that because she'd insist it's nothing special. People like Rita never realize how much light they bring into the world.

"You know," I say carefully, "if Sarah ever needs help with textbooks or anything like that, I'd be happy to contribute. As a gift, not a loan."