Something like that, Grant says, taking the corner booth. They order more than usual. Loud, sprawling, taking up half the room. Josie moves through her tables, steady as ever, weaving around the chaos. Around noon, Chase waves her over, holding up an empty ketchup bottle.
Hey, can you grab us a refill and maybe some extra napkins? Sure thing, Josie says, heading toward the kitchen. The second her back is turned, Grant slides out of the booth. Quick practiced. He'd rehearsed this in his head all week.
He slips behind the counter for just a few seconds. Josie's apron hangs on a hook near the register, waiting for her break. He tucks a folded stack of bills deep into the front pocket, then slides back into the booth before anyone even notices he moved. Ryan watches the whole thing from across the table, says nothing, just takes a long drink from his glass. 20 minutes later, Rosie counts the register for a routine check.
Her face changes almost immediately. She counts again, slower this time. "That can't be right, " she mutters, more to herself than anyone. She counts a third time. The number doesn't change. $200 missing.
Gone sometime in the last hour. Meg notices Rosie's face first. Everything okay? The registers short, Rosie says, voice tight. $200 short. Word moves fast in a small diner.
Within minutes, most tables have noticed. Conversations dip lower. Eyes start drifting toward the counter, toward the staff. Grant leans back in his booth, arms crossed, watching with quiet satisfaction. That's a shame, he says.
Just loud enough. Hope nobody in here took it. Rosie looks around the room, uncertain, embarrassed, unsure what to do next. That's when Chase speaks up, casual, like it just occurred to him. Didn't the new girl go behind the counter earlier by the register.
A few heads turn. Rosie's stomach drops before she even wants it to. Josie's been here all shift, Meg says quickly, defensive like always. I'm just saying. Chase shrugs.
Somebody should check. Rosie hesitates. She hates this. Every part of her hates this moment, but $200 is $200, and this diner runs thin. Josie, she calls, voice smaller than she means it to be.
Can you come here a second? Josie walks over, Tray still in hand, expression calm as always. What's wrong? The register's short, Rosie says, not quite meeting her eyes. $200. Josie's face doesn't change.
That's a lot to lose in one shift. It is, Rosie says. I hate to ask this, but I need to check your apron just to rule things out. The diner has gone almost silent now. Every table watching Josie doesn't flinch.
She simply nods once. Go ahead. Rosie reaches into the apron pocket, hoping, praying to find nothing at all. Her hand closes around folded bills instead. She pulls them out slowly, counts them with shaking fingers. $200 exactly.