Why the Girl Hid Under Table Seven

CHAPTER 1 - TABLE SEVEN

"He's not my dad. Please don't let him take me."

The words came from under my table.

I looked down and saw a little girl curled around the black metal table leg like it was the last solid thing in the world. She wore a deep forest green hoodie, dark gray pants, and black canvas shoes. Her light brown curls were stuck to her wet cheeks. Her green eyes were too wide for an eight-year-old.

I had been halfway through bad diner coffee at Mile 17 when the front door slammed open.

A man in a dark blue shirt stormed inside. Mid-thirties, wiry, wild-eyed. He scanned the room like an animal smelling smoke.

"Did anyone see a little girl come in here? My daughter is missing. Did anyone see her?"

No one answered.

The old jukebox hummed in the corner. Ice rattled in someone's glass. A waitress near the pie case froze with a coffee pot in her hand.

The girl under my table started shaking harder.

I set my paper cup down. Slow.

My dark work boot touched the tile beside her, and she looked up at me like I was either salvation or another mistake.

The man took a few fast steps farther into the diner. "She scares easy," he said, forcing a breath through his teeth. "Her mother died last year. She runs when she's upset."

That got people looking at him with pity.

It almost worked on me.

But the girl's fingers turned white around the table leg.

I leaned back in the cracked red booth and finally spoke. "What's her name?"

He looked at me. Just for a second too long.

Then he said, "Emily."

The little girl under the table shut her eyes and whispered, so low I almost missed it, "My name is Lucy."

Then the waitress at the register lifted the phone and said, "Sir, if that's your daughter, why does she keep screaming when she sees you on our security screen?"