A month later, the keys to the rusted Ford pickup were sitting on the counter.
"You take the deliveries now," Leo said, wiping down the espresso machine. "I need to stay on the grill."
Crysta picked up the keys. The metal felt cold and heavy in her palm. It was a symbol of trust. She was no longer confined to the four walls of the diner.
She loaded three insulated delivery bags into the passenger seat of the truck. The engine roared to life with a violent shudder.
She drove through the streets of Cedarwood. The windows were rolled down. The wind whipped her hair across her face. For the first time in over three years, she felt a microscopic fraction of control over her own life.
Her last delivery was in the affluent Heights district. The houses here had manicured lawns and iron gates.
She parked the loud, rattling truck in front of a massive white colonial house. She delivered the food, took the cash, and got back into the truck.
She drove down the tree-lined avenue, heading back toward the commercial district.
Two miles away, Julian Palmer sat in the driver's seat of his silver Bentley.
The leather interior smelled of expensive cologne and money. Julian hated the suburbs, but his private equestrian club was located just outside Cedarwood.
He stopped at a red light at a major intersection. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, irritated by the slow traffic.
A loud, obnoxious engine noise pulled his attention to the left.
An old, beat-up Ford pickup pulled into the lane next to him.
Julian glanced at the driver out of pure annoyance.
His breath caught in his throat. His lungs stopped expanding.
The girl in the driver's seat was looking straight ahead. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She was wearing a cheap black t-shirt. Her cheekbones were sharp, her jawline tight.
Julian's right hand immediately shot to his left wrist, twisting the bezel of his Rolex watch. It was a nervous tic he couldn't control.
It looked like her. The resemblance was uncanny.
But he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a fraction of a second. It was impossible. The stress of the upcoming merger was making him hallucinate ghosts. Crysta Miller was locked away in a prison cell. And even if she had somehow been released, Crysta Miller wore Prada. She drove a Porsche. She didn't drive a rusted truck that looked like it belonged in a junkyard. It was just a local girl with similar features.
The light turned green.
The girl hit the gas. The truck lurched forward, blowing a puff of dark exhaust from the tailpipe, and turned right, disappearing down a side street.
Julian slammed his foot on the brake. The Bentley jerked to a halt in the middle of the intersection. The car behind him honked aggressively.
He stared at the empty space where the truck had been. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard it physically hurt.
He grabbed his phone from the center console. His fingers were shaking slightly, betraying the lingering shock of the phantom sighting. He opened his messages and found Alistair Frye's name.
I think I am losing my mind. I just saw someone who looked exactly like Crysta Miller.
He hit send.
He threw the phone onto the passenger seat. He hit the gas, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He was losing his mind. The stress of the upcoming merger was making him hallucinate ghosts.
Back at the diner, Crysta parked the truck in the alley.
She grabbed the empty insulated bags and walked through the back door.
"Took you long enough," Leo said, but there was no bite in his voice. He tossed her an ice-cold bottle of water.
Crysta caught it. The condensation cooled her hot palms.
"Traffic," she said, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and grabbed her order pad. She walked out to the dining room.
She had no idea that the invisible wall protecting her new life had just sustained its first massive crack.
