Chapter 1

"Sable, empty your bag. Mr. Lassiter's watch is gone."

The manager stood in the kitchen doorway with the side exit at her back, so the only way out was past the tables.

The watch was worth twelve thousand four hundred dollars, Sable's rent was due Friday, and every booth in the Bluebird had gone quiet to listen.

Sable set the coffee pot on the warmer. Her hand was steady.

"I didn't take it," she said.

"Then you won't mind showing everybody."

Odelle came down the aisle and lifted the backpack off the hook by the register. The opal ring on her right hand caught the gray light from the window.

She turned the bag over the counter and shook it.

A cracked flip phone. A tin of breath mints. Two folded dollar bills. A dog leash, looped twice.

No watch.

Sable let out a breath.

"It's not in there," she said. "You can see it's not."

"Pockets." Odelle shook it again, harder, until the zippers slapped the laminate. "Side pocket. Lining."

In the corner booth, the gray-haired man in the navy suit set his coffee down without a sound. He came in every Tuesday and ordered the same plate and black coffee. Sable knew the order before she ever knew his name.

By the dish window, the busboy stopped wiping. He leaned his cracked phone against the napkin dispenser, the screen turned out toward the counter, and picked the towel back up like nothing had happened.

"Here's how this goes," Odelle said. "I call the sheriff, he writes it up, and you're done. No shift change for you. No room upstairs by Friday. A girl with no people and a record doesn't get to argue."

Rain streaked the front windows. A fork touched a plate somewhere in the back and went still.

"Odelle." Sable kept her voice low and even. "Don't do this."

That was all she said.

Her gramma used to tell her the scar was the only thing she came out of the water with, back when she was small enough to carry in one arm. Sable had worn long sleeves over it so many years she forgot most days it was there at all.

Odelle reached across the counter and caught her by the left wrist.

"You're not walking out that door," she said, and pulled.

The red bracelet slid down toward her hand. The sleeve of the navy undershirt rolled back past the wristbone.

There, white against pale skin, was the mark - a half-moon, curved like a thumbnail pressed into soft wax.

The man in the navy suit was already up.

He crossed the aisle in three steps. His hand closed around her forearm just above Odelle's, and when he spoke his voice had gone rough.

"Where did you get that mark?"