Free Pawn (Nightmares Trilogy #1) by Sophie Davis

still flipped to
“closed.” An elderly man was sweeping stray peanut shells into a
dustpan inside. He looked up when I knocked and slowly made his way
to greet me.
    “I don’t usually have pretty girls
beating down my door so early in the evening,” he said when he
opened the door.
    “Sorry,” I apologized. “I’m supposed
to meet someone here at six. Guess I’m a little eager.”
    “Not a problem. Come on in.” He held
the door open. “Sit wherever you like. I’ll get you a
menu.”
    The diner was small. Ten booths ringed
the perimeter, while six tables were organized in the center of the
space. A row of five wooden bar stools sat in front of a waist-high
counter, with placemats and neatly rolled silverware waiting for
the day’s patrons. Behind the counter was a six-by-six foot griddle
on top of an industrial-sized oven.
    I selected a booth with a
window so that I could see the parking lot. Not that I had any idea
what type of car my father drove these days, but at least I would
see him as soon as he arrived. The old man retreated behind the counter and
then limped back over to me, wiping a rag across the plastic
menu.
    “Something to drink?” he asked,
handing me the menu.
    “Coffee, please,” I
replied.
    The man chuckled. “A little young to
crave caffeine,” he teased.
    “Long day,” I told him even though I’d
been drinking coffee since I was thirteen. When I was little, I was
always cold and my father would give me his coffee mug to warm my
hands. Sometimes I’d take a sip, pretending like it was some great
treat that I wasn’t supposed to have. Once he was gone, I kept up
the tradition. Only now, I actually drank the coffee.
    The man laughed again. “You’re too
young to have long days.”
    I laughed too. “You’re telling
me.”
    While the man, who I assumed was the
owner, left to fix my coffee, I perused the menu. I had no
appetite. Anticipation twisted my stomach into knots, and I doubted
there was room left for food. When he returned with a steaming mug,
brimming with dark liquid and smelling like heaven, I ordered the
first thing that came to mind: Pancakes. I never ate pancakes, not
since I had become too old for the server to add a whip cream
smiley face.
    “Mind if I turn on some music?” the
man called from behind the counter. “I like to cook to
music.”
    “Not a bit,” I told him.
    I absentmindedly hummed
along with a tune that sounded vaguely familiar but wasn’t sure I
actually knew. I folded my napkin into a small square, then
unfolded the paper and smoothed the creases. By the time my food
arrived, the napkin was nothing more than white confetti piled
neatly next to my coffee cup. I kept shooting furtive glances out
the window, but no new cars joined the Bug in the parking lot. The
cell phone sitting on the Formica table didn’t buzz once.
    The man slid a plate with three fluffy
pancakes onto the
placemat . A whip cream grin smiled up at
me. Two brown M&M’s served as eyes and a maraschino cherry
provided the nose. I stared at the creation, then up at the
man.
    “My granddaughter is about your age.
She still likes her hotcakes this way,” he told me with a wink of
one crinkly eye. Then, to my surprise, he eased himself into the
booth across from me. “Hot date with your beau?” he
asked.
    “No. My dad,” I said. “He was supposed
to be here at six.” I looked at the time on my cell again, even
though I had checked it just before the pancakes arrived. 6:12
p.m.
    “I’m sure he’ll be here. Only
something very important keeps a man from his daughter.”
    Or an overzealous bitch of
a mother , I thought.
    “Is this your place?” I asked him, not
sure what else to say since he apparently wasn’t going
anywhere.
    “Sure is. Owned it for thirty years,”
he said proudly.
    I picked up my knife and fork and
started cutting the pancakes. While I wasn’t hungry, I also didn’t
want to offend the man after he’d gone through all of the trouble
of making me a