When I put on my apron and come out of the locker room, the door chimes, signaling a new customer. I lift my head as I walk toward the register and every cell in my body freezes.
Tolyan.
Today he’s in a navy suit with a white shirt and no tie. Everything about him is pristine and crisp, like he has a business meeting to attend. I realize he wasn’t on the jogging trail just because he didn’t feel like coming by, not because he slept in or whatever. I glance at his hands. He must’ve used them to kill the man last night. I stare at them more closely. I have no idea what I’m looking for. Bloodstains under his fingernails? Scratch marks from the man’s struggle?
But Tolyan’s hands are scratch-free and clean enough to perform surgery. Then I remember the gloves he was wearing when he went to the house, plunging me deep into a massive wave of doubt.
The article didn’t say what he did. Just that the man died. A suicide. It’s probably a suicide, I tell myself, although my silent reassurance seems hollow. The cops would’ve known if it weren’t…wouldn’t they?
But maybe cops didn’t look too hard. Or maybe it’s still too early to tell.
Tolyan doesn’t study the menu like he did yesterday. He merely comes to me. Then, before I can say the standard greeting, he says, “Drip coffee. Black. No sugar.”
I force a smile. No matter what’s churning in my head, he’s a customer. “Anything else?”
“No.” He hands me a few stiff bills folded neatly in half. “Keep the change.”
It’s only eighty-two cents, but I don’t want it. I can’t make sense of his kindness and his potential for violence.
Sure you can. Think about when he was kind and when he was brutal.
I pause for a second. I’ve known him for two days, and the only time he’s been less than kind is when the other person deserved it. The flasher. The redhead—well, he didn’t know she was obnoxious to me, but I suspect she’s like that with everyone, so he might’ve seen her behave badly. And that drunk guy at the party.
Could it be that the bathtub guy did something? But what could be so bad it deserved—
“Here you go.” Sean’s placid voice interrupts my train of thought. He gives Tolyan his coffee. Tolyan levels a cool look at him, a look reserved for a toddler who’s done something irritating. Sean smiles uncertainly in return.
I lick my lips, feeling like I should say something, but I have no clue what. Sean was just doing his job.
Tolyan stalks out of the café, starts to take a sip, then frowns and throws the rest of the coffee into the trash can outside. He doesn’t seem to care that we can see him do it through the window.
“Did you put something in the coffee?” I ask, in case Sean dumped in some flavored syrup by accident. Some of them have a strong scent, and you can smell it if you bring the coffee close to your face.
“No. Just black, right?”
“The pot still fresh?” Eric asks.
Sean glares at Eric. “Yeah. Super. I checked.” Unlike you is left unspoken.
Eric shrugs. “Okay, then it isn’t anything we did.”
“Probably not,” I say, although I’m a little bit skeptical about Sean’s claims. There’s no reason for Tolyan to toss perfectly fine coffee. Is there? Regardless, I say, “Otherwise, he would’ve just asked for a new cup.” I don’t want them arguing. My aching head can’t handle it.
“Maybe he’s just on the rag,” Eric says.
I almost choke. Tolyan is anything but emo. On the other hand, Eric could very well be PMSing.
“Some men are like that,” he adds. Mr. Insightful.
The rest of the shift goes quietly. More people come in for coffee and pastries as the morning grows late and afternoon rolls around. Lots of smiles. Friendly little comments. Whoops of celebration at one table and a lot of hugs. Somebody’s getting married and inviting all her friends.
Just ordinary life. But not something I can have. Not as long as Roy is out there. He’s hurt my friends before. I can’t have that on my conscience. Courtney texting to check up on me from time to time makes me nervous enough.
The door opens. A courier walks in, his gray uniform slightly wrinkled. His eyes are murky green and wide behind a pair of thick glasses. His face is a tad too pale, like he doesn’t see a lot of sun, and his mouth is thin but soft. The short sleeves of the uniform show thin, gangly arms. The man has to be around thirty, but he appears as harmless as a child.
However, he’s holding a package.
My nerves skitter in that familiar way. But it can’t be what I’m thinking. It’s too soon. Way too soon. And I’ve never received a package at work.