Chapter 2 - The Morning Shift at Mae’s Corner
The dawn light over Harbor City broke through a gray, drizzling fog, painting the waterfront in washed-out shades of slate and rust.
Emma jolted awake, her neck kinked at a sharp, agonizing angle. For a disoriented second, she stared at the expensive fabric of a pair of tailored trousers instead of her own lumpy mattress. Then memory rushed back like a physical blow.
She had fallen asleep. On duty. In the master suite of the most dangerous man in Connecticut.
Her eyes flew open. Dominic Kane was gone. The wheelchair sat empty near the desk, facing the dark expanse of the security monitors. The room was silent, save for the hum of the air filtration system.
Panic seized her chest. Her shift had ended at six. If Mrs. Caldwell or Ethan found her slumped across his lap, she would be fired instantly—and thirty-two dollars an hour would vanish into thin air, leaving her unable to make this month's payment for Willow Glen Memory Care.
She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her injured knee flared with sharp, stabbing pain. Her pastel-pink backpack was slung over a chair near the door. She grabbed it, checked inside to make sure her things were intact, and hurried out of the suite, slipping down the back service stairs before anyone could intercept her.
By seven-fifteen, Emma was wiping down sticky laminate tables at Mae’s Corner Diner downtown, the smell of grease and burnt coffee acting as a harsh anchor to reality.
“You look like you got run over by a freight train, kid,” Mae muttered, tossing a greasy rag onto the counter. “You pull another double?”
“Housekeeping,” Emma murmured, pouring a cup of black coffee she desperately needed. “Clients keep weird hours.”
“That Kane estate?” Mae asked, lowering her voice and leaning across the register. “People say strange things about that place. Ever since the shooting two years ago, nobody goes in, nobody comes out. You sure you want to keep working for a ghost?”
“The pay is good, Mae.”
“Pay ain't worth a bullet, Emma.”
Before Emma could answer, the diner bell chimed above the front door. A tall man in a dark trench coat walked in, shaking the morning mist from his shoulders. He didn't look like the usual dockworkers or truck drivers who frequented Mae’s. His shoes were clean, his posture rigid, and his eyes scanned the room with practiced military precision.
Ethan Ward walked straight toward Emma’s booth, sliding uninvited onto the worn vinyl bench across from her.
May you like
Emma’s breath hitched. She tightened her grip on the coffee pot.
“You left something behind,” Ethan said softly, his voice devoid of warmth.
