The lunch rush at Margo's Place was deafening.
Crysta moved between the tables with fluid precision. She balanced three plates on her left arm and held a pitcher of iced tea in her right hand.
Ridge Mason sat at the counter. He was wearing his dark blue fire department uniform.
Before he could even open his mouth, Crysta slid a heavy ceramic mug of black coffee in front of him.
"Your usual, Captain," Crysta said, not breaking her stride as she moved to refill a customer's water glass.
Ridge let out a booming laugh. He picked up the coffee mug.
"Margo!" Ridge yelled over the noise of the grill.
Margo wiped her hands on her apron and walked out of the kitchen. "What is it, Ridge? Is the coffee too hot?"
Ridge shook his head, pointing his thick finger at Crysta, who was wiping down a table across the room. "Where did you find her? She has a memory like a steel trap and she moves faster than my probies."
Margo smiled, a genuine look of pride on her face. "She works hard."
Ridge took a sip of his coffee. He set the mug down and looked at Crysta as she walked back behind the counter.
"Hey, kid," Ridge said.
Crysta stopped, holding a damp rag. "Yes, Captain?"
"My daughter, Chloe, just opened a boutique coffee shop downtown," Ridge said. "She is drowning. She needs a manager. Someone who knows how to hustle and keep things organized. You interested in a step up?"
Crysta's hands tightened around the damp rag. Dirty water squeezed out and dripped onto her shoes.
A manager position. Downtown. It was a ticket back to the real world.
She forced a polite smile. "Thank you, Captain. But I am very happy here."
Margo laughed, swatting Ridge's arm with a menu. "Stop trying to poach my best girl, Ridge."
Ridge chuckled and went back to his coffee. The moment passed.
But Crysta's heart was beating a frantic rhythm against her sternum. She walked into the back room to grab more napkins. She leaned against the metal shelving unit, pressing her hand to her chest. She couldn't take a job downtown. A real job meant a real background check.
Thirty miles away, in the dim, mahogany-paneled lounge of the Apex Private Club, Julian Palmer sat across from Alistair Frye.
Alistair tapped his cell phone against his knuckles. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was the sound of his brain calculating risks.
"Are you absolutely certain about what you saw?" Alistair asked, his voice low.
Julian took a sip of his scotch. The liquor burned his throat. "I just told you I thought I was losing my mind. I am not certain of anything. I saw a profile for three seconds. But Alistair... the resemblance was terrifying. It looked exactly like her. Just... broken down."
Alistair stopped tapping his phone. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "If she is out, why hasn't Collins said anything? Why hasn't the Reese family released a statement?"
"Because they threw her away," Julian said bluntly. "They used her to save Asha, and then they erased her."
Alistair's eyes narrowed. "Collins personally handed the prosecutor the evidence that locked her up. He destroyed her."
"And then he banned anyone in our circle from ever speaking her name again," Julian countered. "He is obsessed with Asha, yes. But his reaction to Crysta's name... it's volatile."
"So what do we do?" Alistair asked.
Julian stared at the ice melting in his glass. He thought about Collins Hunter. He thought about the cold, ruthless way Collins destroyed rival companies.
"We do nothing," Julian said. "If we tell Collins we saw her, and we are wrong, he will tear us apart for bringing her up. If we are right... God knows what he will do to her. Or to us for getting involved."
Alistair nodded slowly. "Agreed. We bury it. It was a ghost, Julian. Just a ghost."
