I ignored the customers staring at me as if I were a moron and strode to the kitchen. The feeling stayed with me, hot and heavy. I peered through the window on the kitchen door. The couple that’d just entered the restaurant was talking animatedly to Penney, scowling and pointing toward the kitchen. My gaze swept over the dining room and jerked to a stop on Bridger. I hardly recognized him. He sat leaning forward, as still as granite, his hands balled into fists atop the table. Only his eyes moved as they made their slow way to the kitchen door and met mine. They lingered there, devoid of all expression, and I had the sudden urge to shrink away.

A hot hand grabbed my shoulder. “What you looking at, mamacita?”

I practically jumped out of my skin. “Tito! You totally freaked me out. What are you doing?” I put a hand over my stuttering heart.

Tito tilted his head to the side. “Slow night. No dishes to wash.”

“Mmm,” I agreed, shrugging his damp hand off me. He leered at me and grinned. Taking a deep breath, I went back out to the dining room. Bridger was putting a chip into his mouth, totally focused on his food. If he noticed I’d come back out, he didn’t acknowledge it.

As I went about work, things slowly returned to normal—no more crawling skin. Yet I could feel Bridger’s preoccupied stare. He followed my every movement, and each time his restless eyes caught mine, they were filled with doubt.

After he sat at his table for an hour without taking more than two bites of food, he waved me over. “I’ll pick you up later,” he said quietly, pulling car keys from his pocket.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

He shrugged and walked out of the restaurant. On the table was a crisp twenty-dollar bill. I put my hands on my hips and shook my head. Twenty dollars for an eight-dollar plate of nachos that he’d hardly eaten? I had asked Bridger to stop tipping me. Of course, he didn’t listen. He always tipped me, and always too much.

My heart was heavy after he left, and the lack of customers did nothing to raise my spirits.

“Wow, nice shirt, chica,” Penney said during a moment when only one customer was in the restaurant. I don’t know if she meant it, or if she was just trying to make small talk, because Penney never seemed interested in anyone’s clothes but her own. “Where did you get it?”

I looked down at the shirt—a black, lace-trimmed short-sleeve sweater that was a little tighter than what I usually wore.

“It was Bridger’s sister’s.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “The jeans, too? That brand costs over one hundred dollars a pair.”

I looked at my jeans, slightly too long, with a whole new respect. “And the sandals,” I clarified.

“So are you and Bridger dating, or what? Because Maria said Walt says that Alex told him you are, but Kat told him you aren’t. And you’ve never mentioned it. And I thought he didn’t date local girls.”

“We’re friends. And you can tell Maria to tell Walt to tell Alex that.”

She raised her eyebrows again. “You sure about that friend business? You and Bridger seem tighter than double-D’s in a C-cup. And I see how he looks at you when he comes in for dinner—like you’re the entrée … a bit more than just plain friendly to me. If any man ever looks at me the way Bridger looks at you, I’ll kiss him so thoroughly he won’t know what hit him. Because if we have chemistry, we’ll be set for life.”

“It’s totally not like that with Bridger and me. He made it clear that there would never be anything more than friendship between us,” I explained, but the thought of kissing him so thoroughly he wouldn’t know what hit him made my breath come a little faster.

“I know what I’m talking about. I’m older than you. I’ve dated a lot of men, and not one of them looked at me the way he looks at you. If they had, I wouldn’t be single,” Penney stated. “Believe me or not, but he is totally hot for you.”

“I wish,” I said under my breath.

“No way! You’re in love with him, too!” she exclaimed, grabbing my hand.

“I try not to be,” I said stonily, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Penney had a tendency to blab gossip around the restaurant like she was a tabloid. And if she told Maria I was in love with Bridger, Maria might tell Walt. And what if Walt spilled the beans at one of our Ultimate games? “Please don’t tell anyone!”

“Oh, honey. You play your side of this pretending not to care a whole lot better than Bridger does. I had no idea! And I won’t breathe a word,” she said, her Spanish accent thicker than normal. She studied me for a minute. “You know, next time you’re real close to him, look him right in the eyes and just lean in halfway, like you are about to kiss him. If he goes the other half, you’ll know that I’m right.”

I laughed weakly.

“Tell me when it happens,” she said and hurried off to refill a drink.

At eight o’clock, José stuck his head out of the kitchen and hollered for Penney and Tito to go home. Tito strode out of the restaurant before José closed his mouth. Penney and I looked at each other and then at José.

“Magdalena hasn’t spilled a single thing tonight,” he explained at our matching looks of shock. “She’s gotten every order right. I think she can handle things on her own tonight.”

“That sounds good to me!” Penney said. “My back is killing me.” She slipped her feet out of her stilettos and turned to me. “Remember what I said about halfway.”

“I am sure it will be on my mind all night.”

Even with Penney gone, I never had more than two tables at a time to worry about. To kill time, I washed the front windows, wiped down chairs and booths, swept the floor, anything to make the night pass more quickly. While doing these mundane tasks, I couldn’t help but glance at my watch every few minutes, counting the seconds till closing time.

“Watching time pass is watching death approach,” Naalyehe said. I looked up from the dustpan I was using, surprised to see him out of the kitchen. He tended to avoid the dining room. “If you are an orphan, what happened to your family?” That was the last thing I expected him to say.

“They all died before I was six—aunt, cousin, parents—and then I was alone. A foster child,” I said without thinking. I had told that so many times, to so many people, for so many years that it popped out of my mouth in a dainty prewrapped package.

“That man who came looking for you—he said you were a foster child. How could he know that?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be hard to find out. It’s not like it was a secret or anything,” I said sarcastically. “What did they arrest him for, anyway?”

Naalyehe’s dark eyes twinkled. “José reported him for loitering. But the warrant I mentioned earlier is keeping him in jail.” Naalyehe began wiping a table. A table I’d wiped down five minutes earlier.

I dumped the full dustpan into the nearly empty trash can, then went back to stand beside Naalyehe. We stared at the dark night through the front window.

“So, what was his warrant for?” I asked, struggling to find anything to talk about with a man I had absolutely nothing in common with.

Naalyehe turned to me. I shrank away from the intensity in his wrinkle-lined eyes. “He was caught trying to smuggle the skin of an endangered species into America.”

“What kind of animal?”

“A cheetah.”

My blood turned to ice. “A cheetah?”

Naalyehe’s gray brows furrowed. “No, not a cheetah, a tiger. A Siberian tiger. The police believe Rolf is a big-cat poacher.”

My stomach lurched. “What do you think, Naalyehe?”

“I think the police are wrong. They also found this in his car.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. It was a worn envelope with an address and stamp on it—an address I knew well. I’d lived at it for nine months. I knew the handwriting, too. It was mine.

With trembling fingers, I slid the letter out, but I already knew what it said.
Jenny Sue,Stop worrying. I’m good. I live with a sweet older woman in the southern part of the state. I got a job at a restaurant called the Navajo Mexican. Totally weird name, I know, but the food rocks.Thanks for warning me about Mr. Creepy. I’ll keep an eye out, but don’t worry. I can take care of myself.—MM “So that’s how he found me,” I whispered, trying not to freak out.

Just then the front door opened, ringing the bell that hangs above it. A young couple, older than me but hardly, stood by the door.

“I will be in the kitchen,” Naalyehe said, taking the letter and patting my arm.

I took a deep, shaky breath and forced a smile to my face.

“A table for two tonight?” I asked cheerily, though dread was making it hard to keep from falling to my knees.

25

“What is the matter?” Bridger asked the instant I opened the car door. He had been sitting in his idling car in front of the restaurant for almost an hour, watching me through the window.

My hands shook on my seat belt, making the metal clip rattle when I hooked it.

Bridger grabbed my hand. “You feel like ice!” He turned the heater on in spite of the warm night and pointed all the vents at me. “Why?”

I studied his face, wondering what to say. I absolutely could not tell him the truth—that I was a freak of nature who turned into an animal and apparently a poacher was hunting me—but I wanted to with all my heart.

“Maggie! I am freaking out here! What happened tonight?” he practically yelled. I could see the fear in his eyes and knew it mirrored my own.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I lied. “Just take me home.”

He put the car into drive and it lurched into the dark night.

I turned and searched the darkness behind us, though I don’t know what I was looking for. All of a sudden I had the terrifying suspicion that my secret wasn’t as secret as I thought. Rolf Heinrich knew about me.