She's suing me, Sadie thought, a cold wash of panic flooding her chest. I touched her neck. I moved her. Dale said I shouldn't have moved her. Oh god, she's going to sue me for giving her whiplash.
The heavy glass door swung open. The little bell above it chimed, sounding ridiculously cheerful against the sudden, heavy silence in the room.
The man stepped inside, bringing the scent of petrichor and expensive vetiver cologne with him. It cut through the diner's grease like a scalpel. He didn't look around with disgust, which Sadie found somehow more insulting; he simply looked right through the peeling wallpaper, the cracked vinyl stools, and the flickering neon. He scanned the room, his eyes cold and efficient, before locking onto Sadie.
He walked straight toward her, his leather shoes making a sharp, authoritative clack against the linoleum.
Frank burst out of his office, smelling a health inspector or a tax auditor. "Can I help you, sir? Table for one?" Frank's voice was an octave higher than usual, dripping with a desperate, ingratiating customer-service tone.
The man in the suit ignored Frank entirely. He stopped two feet in front of Sadie.
"Sadie Miller?" he asked. His voice was deep, smooth, and completely devoid of warmth.
Sadie swallowed hard. She dropped the wet rag onto the counter. "Who wants to know?"
"My name is Mr. Caldwell," the man said. He reached inside his tailored jacket.
Sadie flinched slightly, her mind leaping to ridiculous cinematic conclusions, but he only withdrew a thick, cream-colored envelope. He held it out to her.
Sadie didn't move. She stared at the envelope as if it were a live grenade. "What is that?"
"Compensation," Caldwell said smoothly. "And a nondisclosure agreement. Standard procedure."
Frank hovered nearby, his eyes darting between the expensive suit and his waitress. "Sadie, what did you do?" he hissed.
"I didn't do anything," Sadie snapped at Frank, before turning her glare back to Caldwell. "Compensation for what?"