Dana entered the café and scanned the room. It was still too early for lunch break, but a few folks were already there—two young men in workout attire talked earnestly in a corner, a middle-aged woman with harried hair sipped from a coffee mug while staring out the window, and a young lady with pink spiked hair worked on a laptop, her headphones probably tuning out the noise in the room. The smell of roasted coffee mixed with tomato soup hung heavy in the air. Dana guessed the cooking staff were already prepping lunch.
Then she noticed a woman in her fifties—with mousy hair and freckles on her face—seated at the back of the room. Probably Tammy O’Brien. Dana headed in her direction and stopped in front of her. “Tammy O’Brien?” she asked.
The woman looked up. “Yes?”
“I’m Dana Adams. Mr.
