His gaze swept the room until it landed on Bella, who was standing frozen by the coffee machine, a pot still in her hand. He walked directly toward her, his expensive Italian shoes making soft, decisive sounds on the linoleum. The two bodyguards followed a few paces behind their presence, sucking the very air out of the room. “Are you Miss Isabella Rossy?” the man asked.
His voice was calm, deep, and carried an authority that demanded an answer. Bella’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could only nod her throat suddenly dry. What was this? Was she in some kind of trouble? Did she witness something? Was this about her mother’s bills? The man stopped in front of her. He gave her a long appraising look.
My name is Marcus Davies. I am a senior partner at the law firm of Sterling Cromwell and Davies. I was the personal attorney for Mu Mr. Arthur Pendleton. The name hung in the air. Pendleton. It sounded so formal, so important. It took Bella a moment to connect it to the quiet old man in booth 4. Arthur. His name was Arthur Pendleton.
Arthur, she whispered. Is he okay? He didn’t come in this morning. Mr. Davies’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. Mr. Pendleton passed away peacefully in his sleep late last night. The coffee pot suddenly felt immensely heavy in Bella’s hand. A wave of unexpected grief washed over her. It was absurd.
She barely knew him. He never said a word to her, but their silent ritual had become a part of her life, a small steady point in her turbulent world. Now it is gone. Tears pricricked at the back of her eyes. “Oh,” she said, her voice small. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brenda was watching from the counter, her mouth a gape.
