“Then please,” I said. “Tell me. What does he do to these women? Every woman he brings here disappears afterward and I can’t figure out why, and he won’t tell me anything.”
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she said, gently, “Your father? Nothing.”
That wasn’t the answer I’d braced for. I’d been ready to hear that he was rude, or cheap, or that he broke down crying, or told inappropriate stories. Nothing wasn’t on my list.
She glanced back toward the kitchen, then lowered her voice.
“It’s what happens when they ask for the check.”
She set down the menus she’d been carrying and led me across the room to a corner booth, a little apart from everything else.
“Your father always sits here,” she said. “Same table. Same chair. Every time.”
Then she pointed at the wall behind the booth.
