InkHeartThe diner’s perfume—stale coffee and bacon grease—had soaked into my uniform hours ago. My feet were two dull throbs at the end of my legs. Sal grunted from behind the grill, his stained apron a collage of the day’s specials. “Wipe down the counter before you clock out, Brynn.”
“Already did, Sal,” I said, my voice a dry rasp.
He gestured with his spatula toward the jar by the register. “Tips.”
I emptied the sad scattering of change and a few crumpled ones into my pocket. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. My eyes slid to the corner booth, the one with the seat split open like a wound. They were still there. Two men in dark suits that were too tight in the shoulders, nursing coffee that must have gone cold an hour ago. They weren’t customers. They were anchors, weighing the whole room down with their stillness.
My father’s luck had a way of finding me.
Sal noticed me watching them. His gruffness softened for a second. “Everything alright?”
“Just tired.” It was a lie we both accepted. He turned back to the grill, the scrape of his metal sponge against the cast iron a clear signal that he was staying out of it.
I pulled on my thin coat and turned for the door. As if on cue, they moved to block my exit. One was broad, his nose a flattened mess. The other was lean, with pale, watchful eyes that stripped everything bare.
“Brynn,” the big one rumbled.
I clutched the strap of my bag. “I don’t know you.”
The smaller one smiled, a thin, bloodless line. “Your father, Marco, sends his apologies. He seems to have misplaced something of ours.”
“He’ll get it,” I said, the words a familiar, useless prayer. “He just needs more time.”
The man chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Time ran out. Our boss is done being patient. He sent us to collect.” His gaze dropped, cataloging me in a way that made my skin feel thin and cold.
“I get paid tomorrow,” I pleaded. “I can give you what I have.”
The big one laughed, a harsh, ugly bark. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. His fingers were rough, and the touch felt like a brand. I flinched back.
“Don’t touch me,” I whispered.
The smaller one’s smile widened. “He wanted us to be gentle. A reminder.” They stepped aside, clearing the path to the door.
I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I bolted, the diner’s bell chiming behind me. The cold night air didn't stop the sweat on my neck. I ran the blocks to our apartment building, the slap of my sneakers on the pavement the only sound I could hear over the blood pounding in my ears.
I took the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor, my lungs burning. My hand shook as I dug for my keys, but when I went to push one into the lock, the door drifted inward on a low creak.
It was already open.
“Dad?” My voice was thin, swallowed by the sudden, heavy silence. He never left it unlocked.
I pushed the door wide. The small living room had been torn apart. Couch cushions were gutted, their yellow foam stuffing pulled out like insulation. The television screen was a spiderweb of shattered glass. Drawers had been ripped from their chests and emptied onto the floor. They didn’t just steal; they annihilated.
A framed photo lay face down. I picked it up. Me and Mom at the beach, the last picture before she got sick. The glass was cracked straight across her smile. A dry sob caught in my throat.
Numbly, I drifted toward the kitchen. And then I saw it.
In the center of the small table, placed with deliberate care amidst the wreckage, was a single playing card.
A Joker. Its painted smile was a grotesque leer. On the jester’s stark white face was a single thumbprint, smeared in blood still so dark and wet it hadn’t begun to dry.