Then came another sentence.
Brennan was reportedly attempting to locate the individual who had assisted him so he could personally express his gratitude.
Maria grabbed Lashonda's shoulders.
"Arthur Brennan. He is worth hundreds of millions of dollars."
The number barely registered.
"I just wanted him to get home safely," Lashonda said.
"And you gave him your mother's coat."
"He needed it more than I did."
Maria stared at her.
"Lashonda, that man could buy a thousand coats."
"That's not why I did it."
Tommy appeared from the kitchen.
"Wait. Some lady came in yesterday asking about you."
Lashonda turned.
"What?"
"Professional-looking woman. Suit. Briefcase. She asked Dmitri about the waitress who closed Friday night."
Lashonda felt suddenly uneasy.
"What did he tell her?"
"Nothing really. Didn't give your name. Just said somebody had been working that night."
Tommy paused.
"She left a business card, but Dmitri can't find it."
Lashonda looked toward the front windows.
The idea of becoming part of a public story made her uncomfortable.
What if Arthur's people found her?
What if reporters found out?
What if everyone assumed she had helped him because she wanted money?
Lashonda wanted none of that.
Her pride was one of the few things life had not managed to take.
Wednesday morning, Tommy pointed through the front window.
"That black town car is still out there."
Lashonda frowned.
"What car?"
"Across the street. Been there since yesterday. Driver just sits there."
Maria looked outside.
"That is weird."
Lashonda's anxiety grew.
Then Thursday morning, she arrived at Riverside and found a brown-paper package outside the door.
String tied around it.
Her name written neatly on top.
LASHONDA HAYES.
She carried it inside.
Opened it carefully.
Her mother's coat.
Professionally cleaned.
The tear near the inside seam, one Lashonda had almost forgotten about, had been repaired so carefully that she could barely find it.
She pressed the fabric to her face.
Beneath the dry-cleaning scent, White Diamonds remained.
Faint.
But there.
Inside one pocket was cream-colored stationery.
I believe this belongs to you.
I haven't forgotten.
A.B.
There was also a business card.
Arthur C. Brennan.
Brennan Capital Partners.
A telephone number had been handwritten on the back.
Lashonda stood holding the card.
She had not yet decided whether she would call when, at exactly 10:30, a black town car stopped outside Riverside Cafe.
Two people in suits stepped out first.
Then Arthur Brennan.
The breakfast rush was in full swing.
Every booth was filled.
Regular customers lined the counter.
Tommy was juggling three tables.
Maria was pouring coffee.
Lashonda was taking an order at table seven when the door opened.
The room stopped.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Arthur Brennan entered Riverside Cafe.
But this was not the confused man Lashonda had guided through the blizzard.
He wore an immaculate charcoal suit.
His silver hair was carefully styled.
His posture was straight.
Commanding.
Behind him came a woman in a navy suit carrying a briefcase and a man wearing glasses and an expensive tie.
Both carried themselves with polished authority.