Odors of hot grease, fried meat, and coffee hung over the counter that stretched along the rear. A few booths lined the plate glass windows on either side of the door. The place was empty. The lunch crowd, if there had been one, had moved on, leaving behind wet traces of boot prints on the yellow vinyl floor. The bell above the door jangled into the silence for a moment before cutting off as Vicky let the door bang behind her and slid onto a stool. Through the opened door behind the counter she could see a woman bent into scrubbing the metal surface of a trestle table. The shiny circle widened under her hand. Vicky took the menu out of the metal holder and flipped it open. The realization that she was hungry had come out of the blue. Toast and coffee this morning before she’d gone to the office, then nothing, and it was almost time for dinner. Living off adrenaline, chasing after Clint Hopkins, trying to escape the image of the dark figure suspended over the hood of the black truck.
