By Abigail Falanga

You loosen your tie and get out of the car into the blazing heat at the end of a long summer day. It would take too much energy to go home and cook, so takeout it is! Again.

Inside the fast-food joint, the air conditioning barely makes a dent on the swelter. The girl behind the counter doesn’t seem to care, wearing a dark blazer under her apron. It’s the first time she’s been there, and you pass the time waiting in line by assessing her—not pretty, except for a thick auburn braid. Petite. Glasses so thick they have a personality of their own. Favors one leg as she turns to give an order to a fry cook.

By the time you reach the counter, the girl seems familiar. You’ve seen her somewhere before. In court, maybe? The memory eludes you, but you smile as you give your order. “Are you new here… Ethel?”

She glances up, revealing piercing green eyes that deepen the sense of recognition. “First day.”

“I’m in here too often.” You chuckle. “Best sandwiches around!”

“This side of East River, anyway,” she counters, in a husky voice that feels like a tune you’ve heard before.

You pay and step aside to wait. Something about Ethel rankles at you like an itch just out of reach or an incomplete task.

***

Next evening, leaving court early, you decide to stop for supper. Fourth time this week. But it doesn’t matter. Takeout makes for easy cleanup, and you have casefiles to get through.

Inside the fast-food place, that unnervingly familiar girl is working again. You can’t decide if you’re more intrigued or bothered by her.

You approach the counter with a grin. “Back again! Told you I was a regular.”

“Glad you’re here,” Ethel says. “What can I get you today?”

“Lobster and champagne.”

She does a double take and then snickers.

“I think I’ll stick with the sandwich after all—though it was worth it to get a human response from you.”

“What makes you think I’m human?” Ethel shoots back. “I work in a diner. None of us are really people here.”

“Explains a lot!” You laugh, but then ask, “Do I know you from somewhere? You seem familiar.”

“I get around,” is all she answers.

***

When you return after the weekend, Ethel is still there. It’s a slow day, thanks to the pouring rain, and maybe that’s what makes her more willing to talk.

First you ask about the scattering of gray fur on her blazer and hear way more than you wanted to about her cat Fresco. She notices the miniature chess set wedged under stacks of files and documents at the bottom of your briefcase, open on the table, and inquires if you play. Her flicker of disappointment when you confess you haven’t had time in months prompts you to ask her for a game during her next break.

Over chess, Ethel talks about her older siblings, who never gave her an easy time of it. She confesses to working the fast-food job temporarily, as her family is going through a rough patch.

“I know what that’s like.” You finger the bishop. “The stress, I mean. We’ve been working overtime for months trying to bring this gang down, and now that it’s getting close, the pressure is only doubled.”

“You’re a prosecutor,” Ethel states rather than asks. “Are you going to finish that move or not?”

You move a rook instead. “This is the first big case I’ve worked—racketeering, organized crime, money laundering—and I’m going to make it a win.”

She half-smiles. “Well, even if you do, you’re not winning this.” She jumps her queen across the board, putting you in checkmate.

***

In the rush of the next few days, you almost forget to eat. But one evening, when triumph is just over the horizon, your hunger becomes impossible to ignore.

Ethel smiles as you enter. You blink away that feeling of familiarity and come to a decision.

“Ethel,” you say after you’ve ordered your usual, “what if I take you out sometime. Someplace nice, not like this joint.”

“I don’t think so. You’re not attracted to me—not really. You’ve been trying to place me this whole time.” She sneers a little. “You feel sorry for me. Did you want that for here, or to go?”

“Here,” you say stubbornly, “so I have time to change your mind.”

You settle at a table and pull out some paperwork to go over as you enjoy your sandwich and drink. Ethel was right—you’re still trying to place her. You glance up to catch her looking at you, and suddenly it clicks.

The paper you’re reading is about the Grieves family. The powerful crime organization run by a clan of brutal siblings—including the youngest, often overlooked, almost never mentioned—Ethel.

A sick feeling sweeps over you, and a stabbing pain settles in your stomach.

Ethel approaches, apron off and a thick jacket over her arm. “I’m off, but can I get you anything before I leave? You’re looking a bit green.”

“You—” the words choke out and burn in your throat. “You’re Ethel Grieves! What—”

“What am I doing here? Watching the lead prosecutor who’s trying to bring my family down. Planning to take him out first.” She smirks as you gasp. “It’s too late to call for help; the poison is already doing its work.”

You try to say something.

“What’s that?” Ethel leans forward as if to catch your words. “Oh, you want me to take your briefcase so that it will be safe? Of course! Anything for a dying man.”

She shuffles files back into the briefcase, snaps it shut, then pauses. “Too bad. You really aren’t such a bad guy. You almost saw me for who I am.”

You watch with blurring vision as she limps off to vanish out the door into the night.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways—with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

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