Chapter 1 - The Hundred-Dollar Bill
"Have you lost your mind?"
Dana Phillips stared at me as though she expected Vincent Morgan to return with an army.
I pressed the wet rag against the coffee-stained wallpaper.
"Probably," I admitted. "But at least he paid for the cup."
"Emma, that man is Vincent Morgan!"
"I noticed."
"He owns half the buildings downtown!"
"Then he can afford two dollars."
Reuben Hayes appeared through the kitchen doorway, his face unusually serious.
"Emma Carter, come here."
I followed him into the kitchen.
Reuben was fifty-eight, with a gray beard, enormous hands, and the exhausted eyes of a man who had worked in restaurants since childhood.
He'd been more of a father to me than anyone since my own dad died.
"You need to go home," he said.
I frowned.
"My shift ends at six."
"Your shift ends now."
"Reuben, I can't afford to lose four hours."
He removed his apron.
"Listen to me. Vincent Morgan doesn't get embarrassed in public. Especially by a waitress."
I swallowed.
"Then maybe he shouldn't throw coffee cups."
Reuben studied me.
Then sighed.
"Your mother raised one stubborn girl."
A familiar ache settled in my chest.
"She's not doing well."
"I know."
I looked away.
My mother, Helen Carter, had been hospitalized twice in the past month.
Her breathing was getting worse.
The insurance company had denied another treatment.
And I had no idea how I would pay for the medication she needed next week.
Reuben placed forty dollars in my hand.
"Take this."
I immediately shook my head.
"No."
"Emma."
"You already cover my shifts when Mom has appointments. I can't keep taking money from you."
"Then consider it an advance."
I hesitated.
Finally, I accepted.
"Thank you."
I grabbed my coat and headed toward the back door.
But before I reached it, Dana called my name.
"Emma!"
She stood near the register, holding Vincent's hundred-dollar bill.
"There's something written on the back."
I frowned.
"What?"
She handed it to me.
Across the bill, in neat black ink, were six words.
Your father taught you that line.
My breath stopped.
I read it again.
Then a third time.
My father had died when I was nineteen.
His name was Thomas Carter.
He'd been a union electrician, a quiet man who loved baseball, terrible jokes, and strong coffee.
Whenever someone bullied me, he'd tell me to stand straight, look them in the eyes, and never apologize for having dignity.
But how could Vincent Morgan know that?
I turned toward Reuben.
He was staring at the bill.
His expression had changed completely.
"Reuben?"
He didn't answer.
"Did Vincent know my father?"
Reuben slowly sat down.
For a moment, he looked twenty years older.
Then he whispered something that made my blood run cold.
"Emma, your father didn't die in the accident they told you about."
I stared at him.
"What?"
Reuben looked toward the front entrance.
May you like
Then lowered his voice.
"And Vincent Morgan was the last person who saw him alive."
