The last seconds of Jayla's shift crawled by slower than the entire day had felt. Her feet ached, her shoulders throbbed, and the humid, grease-scented heat from the kitchen still clung to her skin like a second, unwanted layer.
She carried the last stack of plates from table twelve, slipped the folded bills from the tray into her pocket, murmuring a tired "Thank you for dining with us," and pushed through the swinging kitchen doors into the relative calm of the staff area.
But her mind wasn't on tips or dishes or the chaotic symphony of the back room—the stainless-steel clang of pans, the hiss of fryers, and the shouted chatter of the cooks.
It was on Eloise.
Why didn't she come to work yesterday? She hadn't even called in sick. Why didn't she answer her phone, which went straight to voicemail after the first ring? Why did she only send that vague, chilling text: We'll talk when I see you?
That wasn't the Eloise she knew.
