The Woman at the Counter
The woman was maybe thirty, dressed like she'd walked out of a law office, a leather folder tucked under one arm like a weapon.
"Which one of you is Odette Marchetti?" she asked the host, loud enough to carry.
Odette's hands went cold around the coffee pot. "That's me."
"Faye Voss." The woman didn't smile. "Elias Voss is my grandfather."
The name landed like a stone in Odette's chest. She glanced toward table twelve, where Elias sat with his newspaper, oblivious, sipping his coffee.
"Is something wrong?" Odette asked.
"That depends on you." Faye set the folder on the counter, unopened, a threat in itself. "My grandfather's bank statements have been strange for months. Withdrawals that don't match his spending. Round numbers, taken out in cash, always right before he comes here."
"I don't know anything about his bank account."
"He's seventy-eight. He lives alone since my grandmother died. People target men like him — waitresses, home aides, anyone who gets close enough to know his routine." Faye's eyes didn't leave her face. "I've read about this. Elder financial abuse. It starts small. A few dollars here. Trust built slow. And then one day the accounts are empty and the family finds out too late."
"I would never—"
"I'm not asking you to confess right now," Faye said, cutting her off. "I'm telling you I already know something's off, because his own bank flagged it before I did. And I intend to find out exactly what's been happening to my grandfather's money, and who's been taking it, no matter how long it takes."
She stood, smoothed her jacket, and looked past Odette to where Elias sat, still unaware his own granddaughter was standing ten feet away.
"He doesn't know I'm here," Faye said quietly. "And he won't, until I have proof. So smile, go back to work, act normal." She picked her folder back up. "Because I've already hired someone to go through every receipt this diner has printed in the last year. And when they're done, I will know exactly whose name is on every single one."