The Destiny of Violet and Luke(88)

“You want to sit at the bar?” I ask, hopeful, otherwise he’s going to take up an entire table.

He shakes his head, closing his umbrella and brushing the water off his arm. “I’ll take a booth.”

I mentally roll my eyes at him, seat him in a corner booth, then leave him to read over the menu while I go behind the counter to get him some water. Then I hurry and tend to the register, before I head over to his table, hoping he’s ready to order and not ready to waste my time.

“You’re Violet Hayes, right?” he says as I press the tip of the pen to the order book and suddenly I recognize his voice. I glance up from the order book as he says, “The Violet Hayes whose parents were murdered in Cheyenne thirteen years ago?”

A suffocating wave rushes through me and I clutch at the pen in my hand. “Are you the * who’s been calling me?”

He notices my trembling hands. “I am.” This stupid grin stretches across his face as he reaches for the water.

Fury thunders through me, along with the stifling heat of panic. My hand takes on a life of its own and I throw my pen at him.

It hits him in the face and he flinches, dropping his water on the table and spilling ice everywhere. “What the hell?” He gapes up at me like I was the crazy one, and then raises his hands in front of him. “Okay, calm down. My name’s Stan Walice. I’m a reporter for Chanel 8 News at 8 and I’d liked to ask you a few questions about what you saw that night. I’m doing a piece about it.”

“You can go to hell. Calling me up like some kind of psycho. Seriously. You think I’m going to talk to you?” I toss the order book at him and it lands in the water and ice and the pages are instantly soaked. I spin on my heels and weave around the tables, with people sitting around them, some staring at me. In ten seconds I’ve managed to go from stressed waitress, to about-to-lose-her-shit Violet. I can feel the anger in the center of my chest, a widening hole, being torn open more.

Stan follows me as I storm to the counter. “So you saw them that night?” he asks. “The ones who broke into your house?”

I don’t answer, begging myself to remain calm. That I have to. That there is a restaurant full of people, enjoying their dinners and family time and I’ll be in some serious trouble if I make a scene.

“Did you find them?” he asks. “Your parents? I thought I read somewhere that you did? And that you stayed in the house for twenty-four hours before you called the cops. Why did you do that?”

I slam to a halt at the counter in front of the register where Sherry, a middle-aged waitress with a gray bob is tallying up bills. I turn around. “Go f*ck yourself, Stan.”

At the exact moment I say it, my boss and owner of the restaurant, Benny, walks out. “Violet,” Benny hisses, glancing around at the tables and booths. His face reddens as his voice lowers. “Go in the back right now.”

Things kind of escalate from there. Reporter guy takes off out the front door, bailing on what he started. I trudge into the back kitchen area and Benny enters seconds later. He’s also the cook and wears this stained white apron that ties around his round belly. I can’t stop staring at the stains as he stands in front of the oven and chews me out. The stains are red, probably ketchup, but they look like blood. Blood. Death. Blood. I start to visualize things, not just about my parents, but about me. My death. How it’s going to happen. Horrible. Tragic. I picture myself on the floor, dying with my parents. For a second, I feel okay.

“Violet, I think I’m going to have to fire you,” Benny says and all I do is stare at his bald head, shiny in the fluorescent light.

I probably would have just let him fire me but then Greyson walks in. He’s wearing his bartending outfit, a white shirt and black pants, and has a glass in his hand. “Hey, Benny, cut her some slack. She’s having a bad day.”

“I don’t give a damn if she’s having a bad day,” he replies, lifting a lid off a stainless-steel pot. “She dropped the f-bomb in my restaurant. There’s kids out there for crying out loud.”

“Yeah, but the guy grabbed her ass,” Greyson lies, glancing at me quickly. “You have to cut her some slack. That’s sexual harassment.”

Benny peers up from the pot as he reaches over to grab a large spoon from the stainless-steel shelf. “Is that true Violet?”

I shrug, knowing I should put more effort into this, but there is too much heaviness in my chest to care. All I seem to care about is the damn red stains on his apron. “I guess so.”