THE CADILLAC AT FOUR O'CLOCK

Thomas watched the man in the black suit take another slow sip from his mug. There was something deeply unnatural about the way the stranger moved—too still, too deliberate, as if every motion were a rehearsed routine designed to mimic normal human behavior.

"Thomas," the manager shouted from the counter, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the diner. "Get off your ass and take that gentleman's order. And stop bothering the vagrant."

Thomas stood up straight, his rag clutched tightly in his right hand. He looked down at Clara. The girl was staring at her plate, her shoulders hunched so low her chin was almost touching the marble table. She had stopped eating. The fork lay abandoned beside the syrup bottle.

"Stay here," Thomas murmured to her, his voice low. "Don't move."

He walked across the worn linoleum, his boots heavy, until he reached the corner booth. The man in the suit didn't look up as Thomas approached; he merely tracked the waiter's reflection in the dark, rainy glass of the window beside him.

"Can I get you something to eat, sir?" Thomas asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, professional. "Special today is chicken fried steak."

"Black coffee is fine," the man replied. His voice was smooth, deep, and carried a faint, unidentifiable accent—European, perhaps, but stripped of any regional warmth. "And a few minutes of quiet."

Thomas picked up the glass pot from the warming burner nearby and topped off the man's cup. The dark liquid steam rose between them.

"We don't see many tailored suits in here on a Tuesday afternoon," Thomas said, testing the water.

The man finally turned his head. His eyes were a pale, washed-out grey, like ice over dirty river water. "I am waiting for something. Or rather, someone."

"She's just a kid," Thomas said, his voice dropping an octave, his knuckles whitening around the plastic handle of the coffee pot. "She came in here hungry. I gave her some food. That's all."

The man in the suit smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Generosity is a rare trait in men who work for nine dollars an hour, Thomas. It is also an extremely dangerous one."

A cold spike of adrenaline shot through Thomas's stomach. He hadn't introduced himself. He wasn't wearing a name tag—he had lost his two weeks ago and the manager hadn't bothered to order a replacement.

"How do you know my name?" Thomas asked.

The stranger didn't answer. He simply reached into his jacket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and laid it flat on the table between them.

"Walk away," the man said softly. "Go back to the kitchen. Take your apron off. Walk out the back door and don't come back until tomorrow evening. If you do that, the hundred is yours, and your paycheck won't suffer for the girl's breakfast."

Thomas looked at the money, then turned his head to look back at Clara. She was watching them through the space between the high booth seats, her brown eyes wide with a silent, desperate plea.

"I have fifteen minutes left on my shift," Thomas said quietly. "I don't leave early."

The man in the suit didn't show annoyance. He simply pulled a second hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and laid it beside the first. "Fifteen minutes is a very long time, Thomas. A lot of things can happen in fifteen minutes. People disappear. Fires start. Cars lose their brakes."

He leaned forward, his face inches from the steam rising from his cup. "A black Cadillac, for instance. It is such a heavy vehicle. Very difficult to stop on wet pavement."

Thomas felt his heart slam against his ribs. The girl's warning echoed in his mind with terrifying clarity: Tomorrow at 4:00 PM, be aware of black Cadillac near entry.