and, bracing herself, went back to the book of spells and tried to resume where she’d left off.
It was no good. Whatever spark she’d discovered, whatever link she’d established, was gone.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Chloe’s feet hurt. She’d been on them from the moment she arrived at work that afternoon; if
her
feet hurt, she could only imagine how the waitstaff felt. Business at the restaurant had been heavier than usual; traffic always picked up in the summer because of the tourist business, and they also kept their regulars, thanks to consistently good food, impeccable service, and, when required, discretion. Tonight had been nonstop, every table full and people waiting, which was good for bar business, plus a popular senator had brought his lovely wife in for dinner. The staff had smiled and greeted the senator as if he hadn’t been there just last week with his girlfriend. What a schmuck.
At last, though, the place was quiet, the chattering crowd gone, the kitchen cleaned and silent, the lights turned down. Chloe reconciled the receipts with the night’s take, put the cash and credit card receipts in a bank bag for a morning delivery and locked it in the safe, and, while it was on her mind, placed an online order for monogrammed napkins. She checked the kitchen to make sure it was properly cleaned and ready for the morning crew, and texted a message to Jerry, the day-shift manager. Then she wrote a note leaving himthe same message, in case his kids got their hands on his cell phone and deleted the text message. It had happened before.
She got paid a little more for working the night shift, because of the hours and the extra work—the restaurant did more business at night—but it was Jerry’s choice. He had a wife and kids and he liked being home in the evenings. That suited Chloe; she was a bit of a night owl anyway, and lately even more of one.
She could have put the restaurant to bed and been out of there, but she puttered about for a while longer, delaying going home. When she was at work, she didn’t see braids or hear disembodied voices. She couldn’t in all conscience delay for very long, though, because the bartender, Carlos, was waiting to walk her to the Metro station, as he did on the nights she didn’t drive to work. She’d have preferred taking the Metro all the time, rather than fighting the D.C. traffic, but it was open late only on Friday and Saturday evenings. The other three shifts she worked, she had to drive.
All day she’d tried to come up with an explanation for what she’d heard in her kitchen last night after work. It would be so easy to write the episode off to imagination, but she didn’t think she had
that
much of an imagination. She hadn’t been drinking, and she had no history of mental problems—not yet, at least. Maybe. She hoped. The way things were going …
She might put what she’d heard down to some bizarre sound wave carrying from a neighbor’s house, or a radio or television somewhere. Could sound waves do that? Weird things happened with electronics all the time. But the fact that the voice had called her name blew that theory out of the water.
She even tried to convince herself that she’d been sleepwalking, but dammit, she hadn’t been; she’d beenwide awake, which was why she’d been in the kitchen at that hour, drinking milk. If even one of these theories would at least stay in the damn boat, much less in the water, she’d be satisfied, but no, that one was blown out, too.
Even worse, during the busiest part of the night she had suddenly felt … weird. That was the only word she could come up with to describe it. Not exactly dizzy, not exactly sick, just suddenly disconnected, as if she were a half-second out of sync with time, and there was a kind of golden shimmer behind her eyes that faded in just a few seconds, and after that she felt perfectly normal.
Weird
.
The aortic aneurysm she’d lived with for so long wouldn’t affect her brain. If
It was no good. Whatever spark she’d discovered, whatever link she’d established, was gone.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Chloe’s feet hurt. She’d been on them from the moment she arrived at work that afternoon; if
her
feet hurt, she could only imagine how the waitstaff felt. Business at the restaurant had been heavier than usual; traffic always picked up in the summer because of the tourist business, and they also kept their regulars, thanks to consistently good food, impeccable service, and, when required, discretion. Tonight had been nonstop, every table full and people waiting, which was good for bar business, plus a popular senator had brought his lovely wife in for dinner. The staff had smiled and greeted the senator as if he hadn’t been there just last week with his girlfriend. What a schmuck.
At last, though, the place was quiet, the chattering crowd gone, the kitchen cleaned and silent, the lights turned down. Chloe reconciled the receipts with the night’s take, put the cash and credit card receipts in a bank bag for a morning delivery and locked it in the safe, and, while it was on her mind, placed an online order for monogrammed napkins. She checked the kitchen to make sure it was properly cleaned and ready for the morning crew, and texted a message to Jerry, the day-shift manager. Then she wrote a note leaving himthe same message, in case his kids got their hands on his cell phone and deleted the text message. It had happened before.
She got paid a little more for working the night shift, because of the hours and the extra work—the restaurant did more business at night—but it was Jerry’s choice. He had a wife and kids and he liked being home in the evenings. That suited Chloe; she was a bit of a night owl anyway, and lately even more of one.
She could have put the restaurant to bed and been out of there, but she puttered about for a while longer, delaying going home. When she was at work, she didn’t see braids or hear disembodied voices. She couldn’t in all conscience delay for very long, though, because the bartender, Carlos, was waiting to walk her to the Metro station, as he did on the nights she didn’t drive to work. She’d have preferred taking the Metro all the time, rather than fighting the D.C. traffic, but it was open late only on Friday and Saturday evenings. The other three shifts she worked, she had to drive.
All day she’d tried to come up with an explanation for what she’d heard in her kitchen last night after work. It would be so easy to write the episode off to imagination, but she didn’t think she had
that
much of an imagination. She hadn’t been drinking, and she had no history of mental problems—not yet, at least. Maybe. She hoped. The way things were going …
She might put what she’d heard down to some bizarre sound wave carrying from a neighbor’s house, or a radio or television somewhere. Could sound waves do that? Weird things happened with electronics all the time. But the fact that the voice had called her name blew that theory out of the water.
She even tried to convince herself that she’d been sleepwalking, but dammit, she hadn’t been; she’d beenwide awake, which was why she’d been in the kitchen at that hour, drinking milk. If even one of these theories would at least stay in the damn boat, much less in the water, she’d be satisfied, but no, that one was blown out, too.
Even worse, during the busiest part of the night she had suddenly felt … weird. That was the only word she could come up with to describe it. Not exactly dizzy, not exactly sick, just suddenly disconnected, as if she were a half-second out of sync with time, and there was a kind of golden shimmer behind her eyes that faded in just a few seconds, and after that she felt perfectly normal.
Weird
.
The aortic aneurysm she’d lived with for so long wouldn’t affect her brain. If
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