Twenty-five years old. American. Born in Prescott, raised by a single father who had taught her that dignity came from how you treated people when no one was watching. She had arrived in Pine Hollow two months earlier after leaving a job in Phoenix that collapsed under corporate layoffs. She needed steady work, something simple, something honest. Harper’s Diner had offered that.
She tied her apron tightly every morning as if it meant stability. She memorized regulars’ coffee preferences. She wiped down tables twice, sometimes three times. She believed small things mattered because she had seen what happened when they didn’t.
At 10:22 a.m., she noticed the man outside.
He hadn’t even made it fully through the door. One heavy boot lingered over the threshold. His hand gripped the steel railing beside the entrance as though it were the last solid thing in the world. He was tall, broad across the shoulders, dressed in worn denim and a leather vest stitched with dark patches that hinted at affiliation without spelling it out. His face was shadowed by fatigue rather than aggression.
Savannah watched his balance shift.
He swayed once.
