Page 5

FIVE

My heart pounds as I stumble to my closet, searching for my apron.

I’d forgotten I’d picked up a day shift. Now that the Mystery Maidens want to meet two evenings a week, I need the extra cash, even if afternoons bring in less money. However, because of my late-night writing session, I slept through my three alarms, and run the risk of being late.

After I woke up from the nightmare, the intense aftershocks I felt from the terror stayed with me, allowed me an outlet to write.

I sat in front of my computer until sunrise, feverishly typing out The Mistake —that’s the tentative title, at least. The story begins with a woman narrowly escaping an attack but ends some place much darker; I’m still not sure how far I’m willing to take it.

Whether it’s a single story or the beginning of a larger project, I don’t know.

All that is clear is that for the first time in a month I sat behind my keyboard and words flowed freely.

That fact alone is worth this morning’s rush.

And yet, the dark content swirling inside my head disturbs me.

I’ve written about murder and betrayal before, but never from the perspective of the killer.

The ease with which the words filled the page is unsettling, even though part of me is thrilled to have moved past my writer’s block.

Perhaps the return of the black hearts has triggered something, unlocked a part of me I didn’t know existed.

I hurriedly brush my teeth, minty foam dripping down my chin like a rabid dog.

There’s little time to do more than slick my hair into a ponytail.

Although Mario, the owner of the restaurant, likes me, I can’t push my luck by being late again.

This is the most stable job I’ve had in a while, and I need to keep it.

This time last year, I was working at the MedSpa. The hours were good, and because business was booming, I received more than the standard hourly wage. It’s one of the few seasons in the past ten years where things seemed headed in the right direction.

Any time I feel that way, a black heart is due to make an appearance.

My only responsibility at the spa was checking clients in for their appointments and finalizing their payments before they left. There was a tip jar for the massage therapists and estheticians where customers could leave cash, if they hadn’t already added a gratuity on a card.

I’d been there for several months and was enjoying myself. One of the massage therapists had even piqued my interest about getting my own therapy license. I’d been researching classes, thought maybe I’d found a job outside of writing that could make me happy for the time being.

It had been a busy week, customers coming in around the clock for different services. It was near closing, and I stepped around the corner to use the bathroom. When I returned to the front desk, the tip jar was empty.

My first reaction was that one of the therapists had already come through to collect the cash, but they were all busy.

I even questioned whether I’d already collected it and counted it for the day, since we were so close to the end of shift.

I looked inside the jar, a small piece of paper resting at the bottom.

Written on the paper was a single word— Fraud . On the back, was that same black heart I’d seen over and over again.

I tried explaining to my boss what happened, but she couldn’t understand how someone could simply take the money without me seeing, and there were no cameras to prove my side of the story. She believed I’d stolen the money, as she’d had trouble with workers in the past.

I almost told her about the black hearts, that someone had intentionally done this because they wanted me to be in trouble.

Then I thought of the message left behind— Fraud .

Showing them the note would only make me appear more guilty.

In the past, I’d had problems with people believing me about the hearts; I couldn’t take her judgement and pity on top of losing my job.

My phone buzzes, interrupting my memories. My stomach clenches, as I’m afraid it’s Mario calling to see where I am. I’m even more upset when I see the true caller: my mother.

Normally, I’d ignore her, especially when I’m running late, but it’s been more than a week since we talked, and I’m always afraid when she calls me out of the blue it’s because she has some bad news to share. My grandmother has died or something equally awful.

“Good, I caught you,” Mom says when I answer.

The sound of birds squawking travels through the phone lines, and I can picture her now, sitting on the back patio of my childhood home, a cup of coffee with an extra splash of Baileys beside her, as she takes in the rural mountain scenery. “I’ve been so busy lately?—”

“It’s really not a good time,” I tell her. “I’m running late for work.”

“Really.” Her pitch heightens. “You have a new job? Please tell me you’re teaching again.”

“No,” I say, my chest aching as though I can physically feel her disappointment pressed upon me. “I’m still at the restaurant.”

I never finished my degree at WU, so I’m not qualified to lead my own course, but last year, I started substitute teaching at different schools in the area.

That built up my résumé enough to land me a secure job as a teacher’s assistant.

I only fell into the role because some of my former classmates had suggested it.

Many literature majors end up in the classroom, and even though I didn’t have my degree, I figured the job would at least buy me some time until I decided what I did want to do with my life.

I hated every minute of it.

The early mornings. The late afternoons stuck making copies in a cramped teacher’s lounge.

The constant rush of having to monitor the halls, the cafeteria, the bus drop-off.

Most days I’d scarf down lunch and forgo going to the bathroom for hours at a time.

It felt like I was a glorified, underpaid babysitter, and all the aspects of the job I thought I would enjoy—sharing my love of literature with bright young minds—was just a crock.

Teenagers draw their inspiration these days from TikTok and YouTube, not Faulkner and Hawthorne.

They care even less about writing; thanks to AI, they can submit a completed essay within minutes, and the instructors can’t even tell if it’s plagiarized or not.

With each passing day, it became increasingly clear I’d made a mistake by taking the job, until one day I broke down at work, rushed out the double-doors, and never looked back. See, in all fairness, the black hearts aren’t to blame for every problem in my life. Sometimes, it’s just me at fault.

“I assumed you only worked nights there .” Her tone makes it sound like restaurant work is the lowest of the low.

“Not always,” I say, slamming my car door closed and stabbing the key into the ignition. “I picked up some extra shifts to meet with the Maidens more this month.”

“Maidens. Is that your little writing group?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And how’s that going?”

I exhale in frustration, silently cursing myself for answering the phone.

Most topics with my mother are off-limits, but I particularly hate talking to her about my writing.

She doesn’t even try to hide her skepticism anymore.

When I was still a college student, she at least pretended to support my dreams. Once I dropped out, she never missed an opportunity to remind me just how much of a starving artist I am.

There was a moment of pride when I took the teacher’s assistant position, but my mother’s emotional support ended as abruptly as the job did.

It’s yet another reason I hope Night Beat will go somewhere. I wouldn’t dare tell my mother I’ve completed a manuscript and it’s on submission; I’ll tell her once the book is a done deal and watch her eat crow.

“Becca, are you there?”

“Sorry, Mom. Like I said, I’m running late,” I say, searching the spots beside the restaurant for a place to park.

“It’s almost eleven o’clock. Even a morning shift there isn’t really the morning, now is it?”

“I was up late writing,” I say. I won’t provide further details than that, but it’s important my mother knows I’m not a complete dud. “Is there anything you wanted?”

“Just checking in. You know, I’m visiting my sister at the end of the month. You’re more than welcome to come. New England is beautiful in the fall, and I could loan you a ticket.”

“Can’t take off work, Mom,” I say. “Busy here.”

“Sounds like it.” She pauses. For a moment, I think she’s ready to fire off more questions. Then her tone changes. Her voice lowers, and she says, “I always worry about you this time of year. You shouldn’t be afraid to reach out to me.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” I say between gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Ten years is a long time?—”

“I have to go,” I say.

By the time I exit my car and feed the meter, Nikki, the shift leader, is standing in the entrance of the restaurant, hands on her hips, eyeing me as I walk up the street.

“Sorry I’m late?—”

“This is the third time this month,” she says, as though she rehearsed this speech already. Her painted-in eyebrows make an angry M in the center of her face as she scolds me. “If you can’t make it on time for lunch rush, I suggest you stick to the night shift.”

“I said I was sorry,” I say, but she’s already stormed off.

As much as I felt out of place working in the school system, everyone is out of place here.

Most people working in the restaurant industry are in transition.

Students looking for some extra cash. People with more established careers that need to supplement their income.

People, like me, who need to pay the bills while they’re trying to decide what they want to do with their lives.

Nikki fell into the latter category until six months ago, when Mario decided to make her a shift leader. Now she uses what little authority she has to make my life, and everyone else’s, a complete hell.

I avoid looking at my other co-workers as I dart to the back of the restaurant and clock in.

When I approach the hostess stand to check my duties for the day, Mario is standing there, his expensive cologne peppering the air around him.

He’s tall, broad shoulders, his dark hair cut close to his scalp.

“Let me guess. Rough night partying?” There’s that twinkle in his eye that lets me know I’m not in serious trouble.

“I wish I was that cool. I was up late working.”

“Not here.” He looks around the restaurant with a mix of exhaustion and pride. It requires a lot of work to keep a business running, especially in this economy, and Mario has always been an involved employer. “Don’t tell me you picked up another gig.”

“Writing,” I tell him, proudly. “I was up half the night.”

“Ah, the next great American novel. Well, I can’t punish you for that.” He starts to walk back toward the kitchen, then pauses. “But don’t make it a habit, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“You already have your first customer,” he says. “It was a special request.”

The restaurant is mostly empty except for a high-top table close to the bar. Chaz, one of our regulars, sits there, staring at the sports highlights from last night’s games. He’s in his mid-thirties with dark hair and even darker eyes, a crisp button-down tucked into black slacks.

“Early for you, isn’t it?” Usually, I only see him on night shift.

“I was going to say the same to you.” He nods toward the hostess stand. “Nikki was bitching about you being late, and I told her I had to have my favorite server.”

“Lame story.” I fidget with my apron, avoiding Chaz’s eyes. He’s always friendly, makes a point to converse with all the staff, not just me, but there’s an aura around him that always leaves me nervous. “How about you? What brings you in so early?”

“Worked all night. Figured I’d get a good meal before I sleep the rest of the day.”

My eyes move downward, landing on his service weapon, which is secured inside a holster at his waist. Chaz is a police officer with Whitaker PD.

He’s one of the few customers who has tried to get to know me over the past year, mainly because he’s here almost as much as I am.

No wife. No kids. If he’s not at work, he’s either sleeping or fueling up for his next shift, which makes Mario’s Pizzeria his local hangout.

“Any big happenings in Whitaker?” I ask, trying to keep my face neutral.

“Nothing too interesting,” he says. “In my line of work, that’s a good thing.”

I smile again, my nerves writhing. Maybe it’s Chaz’s gun that puts me so on edge, being close to an object capable of taking a person’s life.

Or maybe it’s the badge that bothers me.

He always keeps it hidden away, tucked inside the inner folds of his jacket, which is presently draped over a barstool.

I’ve never had the best track record with police officers.

“You ready to order?” I ask.

“I’ll take the usual.”

“Club sandwich and a Guinness on draft,” I say.

“You know me too well.”

I smile, relieved to be walking away from his table. Even though being around Chaz—all cops, really—makes me uneasy, I have to play along and act the part of the eager, wide-eyed server. That’s how you end a shift with big tips: pretend to be someone you’re not.

Hell, that’s how I get through life in general, these days.