Chapter 6: The Diner Meeting
The bus let me off at the edge of Peekskill, right where the cracked concrete of the state highway met a row of rusted auto body shops and boarded-up storefronts. The morning rain had given way to a heavy, suffocating humidity that clung to my skin like a second wet uniform. My cardboard box of belongings felt heavier with every step, the bottom softening where the dampness had seeped through from the wet pavement. I needed a place with dry air, a cup of black coffee, and a phone signal that wouldn't ping back to the Sterling estate towers. Half a mile down the road, neon tubes flickered inside the windows of the Silver Spoon Diner, casting a sickly pink glow over a row of cracked leather booths. The bell above the door chimed a tired note as I pushed inside, the smell of grease and stale coffee hitting me like a physical wall. I slid into a corner booth near the back, pulling my damp jacket tightly around my shoulders as I tried to make myself invisible against the peeling laminate wall.
A heavy-set waitress with tired eyes and a stained apron shuffled over, dropping a thick ceramic mug onto the table before pouring a stream of dark, lukewarm coffee. I thanked her in a whisper, keeping my eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down the outside of the window glass. Across the room, an older man in a faded navy windbreaker sat reading a local newspaper, his graying hair cropped close to his skull. As he turned a page, I recognized the deep scar running along the side of his jaw—a mark I had seen standing beside the gatehouse during my first week at the Sterling estate. His name was Thomas, the former head chauffeur who had mysteriously retired after twenty years of service just a month before the baby was born. I sat frozen for a moment, my heart hammering against my ribs, weighing the risk of speaking to him against the absolute necessity of finding someone who knew the family's dark mechanics.
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I slid out of the booth, carrying my coffee cup across the worn linoleum floor, and stopped beside his table. Thomas didn't look up immediately, his eyes scanning a classified ad for used transmissions. “The coffee here tastes like battery acid,” I said quietly, pitching my voice so only he could hear it over the hum of the old refrigerator. Thomas lifted his chin, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as they focused on my face. Recognition flickered in his gaze, followed instantly by a look of profound wariness. He slowly folded the newspaper and laid it flat on the formica table. “Elena, isn’t it? The new girl from up on the hill. You shouldn't be down here looking like you just walked out of a flood. Especially not asking about coffee,” he murmured, glancing toward the front counter where the waitress was busy wiping down the pie case.
I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down without waiting for an invitation, sliding the prepaid burner phone across the table so it rested right beside his elbow. “Victoria fired me this morning,” I whispered, leaning in close. “She said she’d put me away if I talked about what happened by the pool last night. But you left that estate for a reason, Thomas. You know what kind of woman she really is behind those charity galas and magazine covers.” Thomas stared at the black plastic phone, his fingers twitching slightly before he pulled his hands back into his lap. A slow, bitter sigh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of decades of buried secrets. “Girl, you have no idea what you’ve walked into,” he said softly. “That house isn't a home; it's a cage built on lies, and Victoria is the one holding the key. If you want to survive this, you need more than courage. You need evidence they can't delete.”
