We didn’t meet in the library that Friday.
Instead, when I opened my locker during homeroom, a folded scrap of notebook paper fluttered onto my shoe. The edges were ripped unevenly, like someone had torn it out in a hurry.
Diner on 5th. 4 p.m. Bring the butler.
No signature.
There didn’t need to be one.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
---
The diner on Fifth Street looked like it had been frozen sometime around 1987 and nobody had bothered updating it since. The red vinyl booths were cracked in places, patched with strips of silver tape, and the old jukebox in the corner hummed louder than the songs it played. Coffee and grilled onions hung in the air, mixed with the sweet smell of fresh pie cooling behind the counter.
Zane was already there.
Of course he was.
He sat in the b
