Shadow of the Storm Read online

  The Midnight Lounge catches my eye almost instantly.

  A crescent moon graces the understated sign and the paint on the building has a marbled appearance that kind of reminds me of the moon…

  Wait. I remember what the moon looks like!

  And the month. It’s December. Christmas is only about a week away.

  How can I remember all that but not anything that pertains to me personally?

  For the moment, I don’t care. I just want to get out of this cold. I push my feet to move faster and approach the main entrance.

  Windows line the front of the building.

  Inside, round tables fill the center of the room and u-shaped booths cover the far wall. Most of the tables are filled.

  A sign in the window closest to the door says “help wanted”.

  Hmmm. Maybe I should consider getting a job. An income would keep me from needing to spend that money, right?

  But employment applications ask about previous work experience and education and references. None of which I know.

  Okay, well scratch that idea off the list.

  I pull open the heavy oak door and step into a high-ceilinged room.

  Hardwood floors gleam beneath my feet. The tables are also wood, but a lighter shade. The walls are a rich cream color, trimmed in royal blue, which matches the cushions on the chairs and booths.

  A stage dominates the wall to my right, with blue curtains that appear to be made of the same material used on the chairs. Two large Christmas trees, decked out with multicolored lights, tinsel, and more ornaments than I can count, stand as sentinels at either end of the stage. Center stage, two men, who look like they might be brothers, perform a jazz number.

  To my left, a few steps lead up to a bar area. The bar isn’t as full as the restaurant, but the one bartender I can see appears to be busy enough.

  The only sign that I’m still in Reno is a couple of slot machines tucked away in the corner of the bar.

  “Just you tonight?”

  I turn to face the hostess, a girl who can’t be any older than twenty. Bright red lips, black pants so tight that she can barely walk, and a white button down shirt that looks about ready to pop a button scream of someone trying too hard.

  Smiling, I nod.

  She picks up a menu and leads me into the center of the room, where she sets the menu on an unoccupied table.

  Chills crawl through my body.

  I can’t sit here. I don’t know why, but I just can’t do it.

  “Um, any chance I could have a booth?”

  The toothy smile she flashes doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course.”

  She leads me toward a booth near the kitchen. “Is this okay?”

  “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  I sit on the bench, sliding all the way around until my back is to the far wall and I can see the entire room.

  It wasn’t even something I planned to do. It kicked in like an instinct.

  Weird.

  Why wasn’t I okay with the tables? Why did I feel the need to have my back to the wall?

  A skinny guy with short, spiky blond hair and slightly sunken eyes stops at my table. The blue half-apron around his waist identifies him as staff.

  The smile he offers crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Hey there. I’m Sam and I’ve got you covered tonight. Get you something to drink?”

  It suddenly occurs to me that my throat is scratchy. And more than a little sore. But I don’t even know what I like to drink. Well, can’t go wrong with water, right? “Maybe just some water?”

  I don’t know why I say it like a question. Perhaps on some level, I feel like I need validation.

  Ridiculous.

  “With lemon?” Not sure where that comes from, but it pops out. Like some kind of weird reflex.

  “Ah, a woman of refined tastes. Be right back.” He half turns, then pauses. “Almost forgot to let you know, our special tonight is spinach tortellini with a shrimp garlic sauce. It’s amazing. Well, unless you’re allergic to seafood, then it’s a trip to the ER.”

  He disappears through the swinging double doors that lead into the kitchen.

  Spinach tortellini with shrimp garlic sauce. Do I like those things? Am I allergic to seafood?

  I open the menu and glance at the page. Half a dozen salads, some burgers, and a variety of pastas. The spinach tortellini dish he mentioned isn’t among them. Must be something special.

  Nothing jumps out at me.

  Maybe I’ll go with the spinach tortellini. It’s not like I have any better ideas.

  He returns with my water and a small basket of bread.

  I order the special, then reach for my water as he moves away. Half the glass is gone in seconds.

  The haze of the last day… or has it been closer to two?... settles on me. I don’t remember the last time I had something to drink, much less eat. My stomach rumbles as if to confirm the thought. I reach for the bread, which is gone before I know it.

  Sam moves around the room with an ease that seems at odds with his lanky frame. Two other servers also flit about, the movements familiar.

  In my mind’s eye, I see myself with a tray balanced on my hand. An industrial kitchen with hotplates, burners, ovens, and open flames. A sign stating that employees must follow proper hand washing procedures prior to returning to work.

  Could I have been a waitress? The movements of the people around me are so familiar that it feels likely.

  References or no references, maybe I should try to get a job here. Seems like a decent place to be.

  And let’s be honest, I could do far worse than a family-friendly restaurant. Especially in this city.

  But can I really fake my way through an entire interview?

  Sam swings by the table with more bread and another lemon water.

  The tortellini arrives before I finish the second plate of bread and I pretty much inhale it. It was as good as Sam promised.

  And I don’t seem to be breaking out in hives or gasping for air, so I must not be allergic to seafood. At least that’s one more thing I can add to the incredibly short list of what I know about myself.

  Sam stops at the edge of the table. “I take it the food was good?”

  The dry tone makes a smile tug at my lips. “It was horrible.”

  “I can tell. Especially given how quickly you devoured that.”

  “I skipped lunch.” And breakfast. And maybe dinner the night before…

  “Ah. See now there’s where we’re different. I make it a point to never skip meals.”

  “I wasn’t trying to. It just happened.” Just like I wasn’t trying to get chased by men who want to kill me, wasn’t trying to lose my memory, wasn’t trying to end up by myself in a city halfway across the country.

  Huh.

  Guess there’s a lot I wasn’t trying to do.

  “So why’re you sitting here alone, anyway?”

  Because I am alone. More alone than he could ever guess.

  Not that I’d ever say that.

  Instead, I shrug. “I just got into town early this morning and haven’t really met anyone here yet.”

  “What brought you to Reno? Work? School?”

  Didn’t he suddenly turn inquisitive? I guess the dinner rush is dwindling. Part of me wishes it would pick back up so he’d stop asking questions.

  Another part of me really likes to be able to talk to someone who isn’t out to hurt me.

  “School.” I obviously couldn’t go with work, not if I intend to look into employment here. I rest my elbows on the table and lean in. “I noticed the sign out front. What’s it like working here?”

  “I like it. Charlie, the dude who owns the place, is a great guy. Treats us well.”

  Well, that’s a good sign.

  “Could use the help, too. Had several people just up and quit within the last few days so we’ve all been putting in long hours.”

  Hmmm. Not such a good sign. “Why’d they leave?”

  �
�Lotsa reasons. One was a student who just finished winter quarter and was moving back home. Another got a job in her field. Another left to work at a strip joint. You know, stuff like that.”

  None of which necessarily has any bearing on the work environment. “It happens. How long have you been here?”

  “Five years. Like I said, it’s been a good place to be. So,” he nods at my nearly empty glass, “I’ll grab you a refill, an application… and maybe dessert? We’ve got this rockin’ choco-berry cheesecake or good old-fashioned pie.”

  I don’t think I could eat anything else. “I’ll take the refill and the application. And maybe the check, too.”

  He nods. “You got it.”

  As he pushes through the swinging doors, I let my gaze wander the room.

  The jazz brothers announce their final number of the night and launch into something with a melody that makes me want to cry. Not sure why, but the urge to just let go is almost overwhelming.

  I can’t give into it, though. Especially not here.

  So I watch the brothers play their instruments and try not to feel the pain radiating through the song. How can something without words be so mournful?

  “Good evening.”

  I whip around to find an older man with well-styled silver hair and a full beard standing beside my table. His slacks have a seam pressed into each leg, his light blue button-down shirt is wrinkle free, and the bow-tie at his neck is the same shade as the aprons worn by the staff.

  A silver-tipped black cane is gripped in his left hand and he seems to favor his left side a little.

  He smiles, the skin by his brown eyes crinkling. “Charlie Knight. Owner. I hear you’re looking for a job.”

  It occurs to me then that he has an official-looking form in his hands. He delivers job applications in person?

  Maybe it’s his way of getting a read on people. And here I am staring like some kind of idiot. “Yes. I saw your sign in the window and Sam told me this is a great place to work.”

  “Sam’s a good kid.” Charlie nods at the empty bench to my right. “Okay if I join you for a few minutes so we can talk?”

  “Of course.”

  He lowers his slightly-heavy frame onto the bench with a sigh. “That’s better. Don’t get around like I used to. Bum knee.”

  Not sure what I’m supposed to say to that. “Old injury?”

  “Nah, just old joints. But you don’t care about all that.” He shakes his head, the smile still in place. “So. Ever done any restaurant work?”

  “I have. I worked in a diner for two years, then landed a job at an upscale restaurant. I was there for almost a year before I moved.”

  Wow. That story just spilled right out. Truth? Hard to say.

  If it’s not, I’m one heck of a liar. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing.

  Charlie asks me a few follow-up questions, things like how I handled large groups, how I responded when an order was wrong, that kind of thing. The answers run out like a river in flood stage.

  It’s scary.

  And if I’m being honest, a little exhilarating.

  “Sounds like you’ve got lots of experience working tables. Ever done any bartending?”

  “A fair amount. That upscale restaurant had a bar. I spent about half my time working there. Sweet tips.”

  “Really?” He studies me, probably trying to figure out if I’m too good to be true. Unfortunately for him, yeah, I am. “So what goes into a Tequila Sunrise?”

  “Tequila, orange juice, and grenadine. Unless you’re talking about the original, in which case it’s tequila, lime juice, club soda, and crème de cassis.”

  His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t say anything, which tells me I gave the correct answer.

  How I knew that is a mystery, but evidently I did.

  And yet, I don’t know if I like Tequila Sunrises.

  He grills me about a dozen other drinks and the answers pop into my mind easily. I can even see them being made.

  Okay. So maybe I’m not lying. Maybe I really did work in a diner, a restaurant, and a bar.

  How else could I know all this?

  He leans against the back of the booth. “Sounds like you’re just what I need around this place. It’s ten dollars an hour, plus tips, which are usually pretty good. I take it you have a food handler’s permit?”

  I have no idea, but it wasn’t in the meager possessions I had on me. “Not for this state.”

  “Get one and you can start tomorrow night.” He tells me where the health department’s office is and I agree to head there first thing in the morning so I’ll be ready to report to work at three. He pushes the application across the table. “Just a formality, but I’ve gotta have an app on file, so fill it out and bring it with you tomorrow. You’ll also need to provide some ID. There’s a list on the back page.”

  “Thanks.” Wow. That was easy. Almost too easy, right?

  He rises stiffly, offering a final smile before limping away.

  I’d like to say that was the most laid-back interview I’ve ever had, but I can’t remember any others. Still, it all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to get anxious about it.

  “So, how’d it go?” Sam slides my check across the table.

  “Well, next time you see me, we’ll probably be in matching aprons.”

  He grins. “Cool.”

  While Sam gets change for the hundred dollar bill I handed him, I stare at the windows on the front of the building. The mist has turned to rain, which dumps in visible panels.

  And me without an umbrella.

  Maybe I’ll wait it out.

  I glance toward the bar area. It’s filled up since I came in, but it’s only moderately busy, not packed.

  If I’m going to be working there, it might be beneficial to get a feel for the place. Maybe watching the bartender in action will bring back some memories.

  Or not. But what have I got to lose?

  Sam delivers my change and I drop a generous tip on the table before making my way into the bar. While a lot of the tables are filled, most of the barstools are free, including one at the far end next to the wall.

  That’s my spot.

  I cross the room and ease myself onto the stool, leaning my back against the wall. From here I can see the whole room.

  Best of all, no one can sneak up behind me. It’s perfect.

  There’s still only one guy working the bar and he’s in constant motion. Mixing drinks for a waitress, serving beer on tap, pouring glasses of wine, the man doesn’t stop moving. There’s a symmetry to his movements, like a dancer lost in the song, that tells me he knows what he’s doing and has been doing it for a long time.

  The guy looks up and his gaze collides with mine.

  He freezes, staring at me for several seconds. His mouth opens slightly, but he makes no move toward me. Nor does he call out. Like a mannequin, he stands there and stares.

  I can’t help it. I glance away.

  When I look up a few seconds later, he’s setting a drink in front of someone further down the bar.

  Weird.

  I’ve seen myself in the mirror. He wasn’t staring because I possess movie-star looks. Besides, his expression screamed shock, not attraction.

  But shock over what?

  Could he know me?

  I take in his short black hair and deep skin tone. Looks like he might be from India. Or someplace in the Middle East.

  But he doesn’t look familiar.

  I’m not an expert on what I do and don’t know, but if I knew him, surely something would trigger.

  Besides, there couldn’t possibly be a connection.

  I just flew into this town, for crying out loud. And Reno is on the opposite side of the country from Charleston. There’s no way he could know me.

  But what else could it be?

  I’ll find out soon enough. He’s heading my way.

  Four

  “How’s it going?” His tone sounds overly cheerful, lik
e he’s trying to compensate for the awkwardness from a few seconds ago.

  “Okay. You?” I glance at his nametag.

  Zak. Doesn’t sound familiar, but I guess that isn’t really a good indicator of anything these days.

  “Oh, can’t complain. What can I get ya?”

  Do I drink? And if so, what do I like?

  Options flicker in my mind like faulty wiring, everything from mixed drinks to wine to beer to hard liquor. Nothing sticks for more than a second. And nothing inspires me to actually order one.

  “A root beer?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Straight up or mixed with something?”

  “Just root beer.”

  “You got it.” He saunters away, giving me a chance to study him without his knowing.

  I wonder if he doubles as this place’s bouncer. The way he fills out the white button-down shirt of his uniform proves that he’s certainly built like one. It’s hard to say for sure, but I’d guess he’s a few inches over six feet tall.

  He drops off my root beer. “Wave me over if you need anything else.”

  Huh. No mention of the weird look from earlier.

  Looks like I’ll have to bring it up.

  “Hey, um, when I first came in, I thought you…” What? Stared? There’s no way to say this without sounding dumb is there? “You looked at me strangely. Have we met before?”

  The smile that curls his lips looks slightly chagrined. “No. Sorry ‘bout that. You just remind me of some… you remind me of my sister.”

  Okay. Didn’t see that one coming.

  There’s something about the way he says it that makes me think there’s more to the story. “Has it been a while since you’ve seen her or something?”

  “Something like that. She’s spent the last five years in a coma.” He digs out his wallet and removes a picture. The corners are dog-eared and the edges worn, like it’s seen a lot of mileage. “This was before the accident.”

  I look at the picture. A family shot, with a man who looks like an older version of Zak, a much-younger Zak, a woman who is likely Zak’s mom, and a girl with straight black hair and glasses.