The diner was nearly empty, the kind of place where you could get lost in the cracks of anonymity. Olivia sat in a corner booth, her back to the wall, sipping a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. Her eyes flicked over the room—a lone waitress wiping down the counter, a trucker nursing a plate of greasy eggs, and a man in a dark hoodie sitting two tables away. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t pretending to.
She felt it in her gut before her mind caught up: he was watching her.
Olivia forced herself to appear casual, her fingers toying with the edge of her napkin. She caught his reflection in the chrome trim of the jukebox by the counter. He was good, better than the amateurs Veronica usually sent. His posture was relaxed, his gaze unassuming, but the way he kept her in his periphery
