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.
The room seems to inhale all at once. Grant doesn't smile. He's smart enough not to. Not here. Not yet.
But something in his eyes settles, satisfied, like a trap sprung clean. Rosie looks up at Josie, heartbroken and confused all at once. I didn't take that, Josie says quietly. Steady. Not a shake in her voice.
Josie. It was right here in your apron. I know how it looks, Josie says. I didn't take it. Me steps forward, fierce.
She's telling the truth. I've watched her all shift. She hasn't been anywhere near that register alone. The camera would show that, Josie adds, if it still worked. Everyone glances toward the old camera bolted in the corner of the kitchen.
Dusty, forgotten. Nobody's thought about it in years. Rosie looks torn apart, caught between what she wants to believe and what's in her hand. I have to call this in, she says finally, voice breaking. I'm sorry.
I understand, Josie says. And somehow, impossibly, she seems to mean it. From the corner booth, Dorothy sets down her tea, hands trembling slightly. "This is wrong, " she says, loud enough for the room to hear. "Plain wrong.
That girl has done nothing but kindness since she walked in this door. " The elderly man with the cane nods firmly beside his wife. "Rosie, you know this girl better than $200 would suggest. " "I know, Rosie" says, voice thick. "I know, but I have rules to follow.
" "Rules written by people who never worry about rent, " the old man mutters. A few other regulars murmur agreement, quiet but present. A ripple through the room. It isn't much. It won't stop what's coming next.
But Josie hears it, every word. And something in her chest eases slightly. Not everyone in this room is looking away today. That matters more than any of them will ever know. Sheriff Boyd Larkin arrives 15 minutes later, hat in hand, apologetic before he even speaks.
He's known Rosie for 20 years. Known most of this town even longer. He's also known the Whitmore family for just as long. Knows exactly how much weight that name carries in this county. On the drive over, he told himself this was probably nothing, a mixup, a misunderstanding that would sort itself out quietly.
But sitting outside the diner a moment before walking in, doubt crept in anyway. He'd taken this job to help people back when he was younger. Some years that felt easier to remember than others. Lately, it felt like every hard call somehow bent back toward the Whitmores. He didn't like what that pattern said about him.
He tried not to look at it too closely. His own father had been a mill worker, laid off once when he was young. Whitmore money had kept half this county fed through leaner years than this one. Larkin knew that debt personally the way most people in Marlo Creek did. It made saying no to that family harder than it should have been.
He wasn't proud of that. He also wasn't sure how to change it yet. Rosie, I'm sorry to do this here, he says, glancing around the crowded diner. I know, she says. I don't know what else to do.
Larkin turns to Josie, apologetic but firm. Miss Mallister, I need you to come with me just for questioning. Nothing's decided yet. Josie unties her apron slowly, sets it on the counter without a word. Can I ask you something first?