Silas Grant, the sommelier, dramatic and cruel about cheap wine.

Eddie Rowe, the floor manager, forty-nine, divorced, tired-eyed, always sweating near the office phone.

Line cooks. Bussers. Bartenders. Security.

Ava’s own employee photo sat among them.

She felt sick.

“You already had this.”

Roman tapped the folder once.

“I told you. I investigate rooms.”

“These are people, not furniture.”

“Yes,” he said. “That is why they betray.”

Ava sank slowly onto the couch.

“You think Eddie did it.”

Roman watched her.

“I think Eddie owes money.”

Ava looked at Eddie’s photo.

The floor manager had been awful in the ordinary ways. He scheduled unfairly, yelled too often, and treated exhaustion like laziness. But he also brought leftover soup to Nora when her hours were cut. He also kept birthday candles in his desk. He also called Ava “kid” in a voice that tried to sound hard and failed.

“He gambles,” Ava admitted.

Mason glanced at Roman.

Roman did not move.

“How badly?” Roman asked.

“Badly enough that two men came into the restaurant last week asking for him. Not customers. They looked like they’d break your fingers for checking your watch.”

“Names?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You noticed them.”

“Describe them.”

Ava did.

Roman listened without interruption.

When she finished, Mason muttered, “Kovac crew.”

Roman’s jaw hardened.

Ava looked between them.

“Who are they?”

“Men who believe they can buy fear wholesale,” Roman said.

“And Eddie?”

“May have sold them my location.”

Ava rubbed both hands over her face.

“He has kids.”

“Many weak men do.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d help kill people.”

Roman leaned closer.

“No. Fear means that.”

The truth landed heavily.

A phone appeared on the table in front of Ava.

Black. Cheap. Disposable.

She stared at it.

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking.”

“Yes, I do.”

Roman’s expression remained unreadable.

“Call Eddie. Tell him you ran. Tell him you saw the shooter. Tell him you don’t trust the police. Ask him for help leaving Chicago.”

Ava stood.

“If he’s innocent, he tells you to call 911.”

“And if he’s guilty?”

“He comes to collect you.”

“You mean kill me.”

“Or deliver you.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“You’re using me as bait.”

Roman stepped closer.

“I’m using what they already want.”

“That is worse.”

“It is accurate.”

Ava’s hands curled.

“I saved your life and your first instinct is to put me in front of another gun?”

“No,” Roman said. “My first instinct was to lock down the city block by block until I found him. This is the efficient option.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m alive.”

“I hate you.”

“I believe you.”

That answer made her angrier.

She turned away, breathing hard.

On the coffee table, her receipt lay under a pool of lamplight. Ugly letters. Desperate words. Proof of the moment she had chosen not to be invisible.

Ava closed her eyes.

If Eddie was innocent, he deserved to be cleared.

If he was guilty, he knew her face.

Either way, the old life she wanted back had already been damaged.

She opened her eyes.

“If I do this,” she said, “and you find who betrayed you, I leave.”

Roman’s stare held hers.

“If that is what you choose.”

She caught the careful wording.

“You don’t think I will.”

“I think fear changes direction after the first bullet.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only honest one I have.”

The call lasted two minutes and forty-six seconds.

Eddie answered on the fifth ring, voice rough with panic.

“Who is this?”

Ava let her voice break.

“Eddie?”

Silence.

Then, “Ava? Jesus, kid. Where are you?”

“I ran. I just kept running after the shooting. I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. I don’t think so. Eddie, I saw him. The man with the gun. He saw me too.”

A pause.

Too long.

Roman stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the cold certainty of him.

Eddie lowered his voice.

“Did you talk to cops?”

“No. I’m scared. I don’t trust anyone.”