Chapter One:
Headlights


The bright red and blue reflection flickered against the street before dying. The ‘OPEN’ sign faded into darkness, but I could still feel the heat radiating off it as my fingers left the switch. Pausing by the door, I checked to make sure the front door was locked. The lights were still on in the small diner and the kitchen was quiet, the closing crew having left almost a half an hour ago.
The diner was a small establishment, only able to seat about seventy people. But it still had a cozy feeling with cream colored walls and home-style decorations. It was silent save for the Aerosmith playing from the radio in the background.
I wiped my hands on my apron, simply out of habit. Two plates of apple pie sat on the order counter, still steaming and smelling of cinnamon. I grabbed them and made my way to the same booth that was always and only occupied at this hour. The table was set for two with steaming coffees and an aging police officer seated.
His hair was salt and pepper gray with deep laugh lines on his face. Wrinkles rippled out from his eyes like rays of the sun. The cobalt color was heavy with weariness from today’s shift. The police uniform was dark blue and crisp as the winter air. His hat sat next to the cup of coffee.
I brought the slices over to the booth.
“What’s the special tonight, Maria?” He said warmly to me as I set the plates down and slid into the booth across from him.
“Apple pie. I was feeling traditional tonight,” I said proudly.
Alan chuckled at me. “What does that even mean?” he picked up his fork.
I gave him an innocent half shrug as I bit into my slice of pie.
This was our tradition and had been for nearly five months now. Alan DeGregorie always came off his shift at 11pm, right after MacAloon’s Diner closed every night. I always had closing and stayed around to sit with him. It was always a warm cup of coffee and surprise flavor of pie I made myself every day. He always loved every slice and I had yet to discover a flavor he disliked, not that I was trying.
We always talked, sharing a moment while the rest of Boston was changing for the night time. Sometimes we would be there for fifteen minutes or even as much as an hour. For you see, it didn’t matter when we left because we were both returning to empty homes.
Two lonely souls commiserating over a slice of pie.
“How are you holding up?” Alan asked after a few minutes of silence.
I shrugged my shoulders, thinking nothing of his quizzical gaze.
“Oh well, the plumber is coming to the apartment tomorrow to fix the leaky sink and I haven’t lost my mind yet, so I’m doing good,” I gave him a cheery grin and knew that wasn’t the answer he was asking for. Alan was asking for how I was really doing, but I couldn’t tell him that.
I wanted to say, ‘For seeing your son, my best friend, getting shot eight months ago I’m doing as well as I can be.’
He seemed to let it slide for now, “Is it the constant, keep you up at night kind of drip?”
I tilted my head back with a laugh before shaking it, “I wish! Least those you can ignore after a while. Mine is an irregular attention grabbing type. It drives you insane during the day, too!”
“Oh the worst,” Alan gave a mock shudder before asking seriously, “Is the landlord going to cover the expense?”
I nodded with a triumphant grin, “Yeah, all it took was one angry phone call and she was willing to cover it if I provided a receipt.” Before I had called the plumber, I had heard grumblings from other tenants about having troubles with reimbursement from the landlord. A couple of occasions they weren’t able to get them, even with the persistent badgering. I wasn’t about to bet against the fact I had gotten special treatment. I figured it probably had something to do with the fact the day I signed the lease I was wearing a uniform.