Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven 1)

“Really?” The slow, small smile was positively devastating. “That’s great. Thanks.”

As Lydia had to glance away, she pretended like she was acknowledging the trucker sitting in the booth behind him—even though the guy was facing away from her and she didn’t know him from a hole in the wall.

But it was either faking a salutation or feeling like something on a hot plate, fresh out of the diner’s kitchen.

“When do you want me to start?”

She shook herself back to attention. “Do you go by Dan or Daniel? And as soon as possible.”

“Good. I’ll start tomorrow. And I’m Daniel, not Dan.”

“Tomorrow? Really? But don’t you need to go get your things from where you—”

“I’m here for the night anyway and tomorrow is Friday. I’ll work the day and head back to Glens Falls when I’m done. What time do you want me?”

“Well, Trick used to come in at eight-thirty and leave at four-thirty.”

“Those are my hours, then.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow. And we’ll process your paperwork first thing so we can get you on payroll.”

Daniel tilted his head in that way he did. “What is that?”

“Um … it’s how you get paid? Have you always been under the table?”

“No, your necklace.”

Lydia looked down at the worn gold charm that hung at the V of her fleece—and realized she was still in her running tights. Her running shoes. Her sports bra.

As she swallowed a curse, she thought, hey, at least it wasn’t a news flash to him. She’d had the stuff on during his interview.

“Oh, it’s nothing special.” She shrugged. “Just a St. Christopher medal.”

“You’re Catholic? Sorry, if that’s personal.”

“It’s not, and it was my grandfather’s. He was Catholic. I don’t know what I am. Anyway, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, sure.”

As she turned away, he said, “What about your dinner?”

“Huh?” She looked across the counter at the server coming out of the kitchen. “Oh, right. Hey, Bessie—”

“I’ve got it coming up, Lydia. Your usual.”

Bessie was also sixty and had a perm that had been taken right out of a style book in 1985, but unlike fading beauty queen Susan, she had the vibe of a gym teacher. Or maybe someone who taught karate to army sergeants. After she delivered a hamburger and a plate of fries to Daniel, she wiped her hands on her apron and nodded like she’d taken a blood oath to bring out Lydia’s order.

No matter what the obstacles or what it cost her.

“I didn’t know I had a usual,” Lydia murmured. But like she was going to argue?

She liked her arms and legs just where they were, thank you very much—she’d never been sure whether Bessie’s commitment to her job crossed counter lines. Like, if you messed up as one of her customers, did she mop the floor with you?

“You want to sit while you wait?” Daniel asked.

“No, I’m good.” She looked up at the billboard of menu items that was bolted to the wall over the soft drink machines, the ice cream coolers, the pie display. “But thanks.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he unrolled his paper napkin, tucked it in his lap, and picked up the burger with fingers that were precisely arranged on the bun. He was methodical about biting and chewing, neat and tidy. Fastidious with the napkin, too, nothing dripping in spite of the fact that there was ketchup involved and things were done medium rare.

He wiped his mouth. “How do you have a usual and not know what it is?”

“Diner amnesia, evidently. On the other hand, it’s going to be a surprise—which at least in theory, I’m going to like.”

“An entree ordered by your subconscious. Cool.”

A moment later, Bessie punched out of the kitchen’s flap door with a steaming plate.

“Here ya go, chicken pot pie, nice and hot.” She put the food next to Daniel Joseph’s burger and grabbed a silverware roll out from under the counter. “You want your Diet Coke, too?”

“Ah …” Lydia cleared her throat.

“Looks like we’re having dinner together,” the WSP’s new groundskeeper said. “Didn’t this just work out, huh.”

BACK TWO YEARS ago, on the first day Lydia had arrived at her new job, Candy had been in charge of her orientation—and not only about the nonprofit. There had been plenty to learn about living in Walters. And the one piece of advice that had held especially true? Everybody in the zip code was related. If not by blood, then by marriage.

So you never said anything bad about anyone because you were talking to their relative. As Candy had said, just like you wouldn’t throw poop at a fan, you didn’t want to run down another person ’cuz the crap would come back on you.

Such a way with metaphors—and there was a corollary to the woman’s Zip It Rule of Walters, New York.