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December 1162N14 degrees
Tala Walker was a woman on the run.
She’d fled Canada six months ago and never looked back. Now she was living under an alias in Willow, Alaska. She’d rented a room at a quiet boarding house. Every day she got up early and walked to the diner where she worked.
It wasn’t much, but she felt safe here.
This morning, the diner was in disarray. There were beer cans all over the countertops and broken glass on the floor. It reeked of booze and cigarettes. She sighed, shaking her head. Walt must have really tied one on last night.
A quick detour to the office down the hall revealed the man responsible for the mess. He was dead to the world, snoring away on a dilapidated love seat. His barreled chest rose and fell with every breath.
Tala didn’t bother to wake him up. Walt was her boss, the designated cook and the owner of the diner. If he wanted to sleep on the job, that was his prerogative. She’d opened on her own before. She could handle the early-morning customers herself. They were heading into the dark days of winter, and business was sparse.
She cleared away the trash and cleaned the floor. She thought of Duane, the husband she’d run away from, who’d also indulged in drunken antics. Only his hadn’t been as harmless as Walt’s. She pushed aside those memories and focused on her morning tasks. Alaskan truckers liked their coffee. She prided herself on brewing a good cup.
At 6:00 a.m. she turned on all the lights, flipped the Closed sign to Open and unlocked the front door. Soon after, a black-and-white squad car pulled into the parking lot. An officer in a navy blue uniform emerged from the vehicle. The sight reminded her of Duane also, and she had other reasons to be nervous about lawmen, but she knew he wasn’t here for her. Cops liked coffee, too. They drank it at Walt’s for free.
“Morning,” he said, hunkering down on a bar stool.
She put a mug in front of him and filled it up. The cream and sugar was within reach. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Just this.”
Tala nodded and inched away. She felt the familiar urge to flee, so she grabbed a clean rag and started wiping down the counter. She didn’t strike up a conversation with him. She didn’t strike up conversations with anyone. She wasn’t the friendliest waitress. Walt always told her she’d get better tips if she smiled once in a while.
A few minutes later, three roughnecks strolled in. Truckers were their regular clientele, but the diner took all kinds. These men had the weathered look of loggers or oil riggers. Tough guys weren’t unusual in these parts, or where she was from. She’d been born on a land reserve in the Northwest Territories. She was no stranger to hardworking men.
She brought them three mugs and three menus, glad for the distraction. As she poured their coffee, she noticed one of the men exchanging a glance with the police officer. She got the odd feeling they knew each other.
“You need another minute to decide?” she asked.
The man closest to her had dirty blond hair and bloodshot eyes. His friends were dark-haired. One had a long, skinny face and a goatee. The other was stocky, with boyish freckles. “Three breakfast specials.”
She collected the menus. “Coming right up.”
The police officer watched her walk away from their table.
“Ready for a refill?” she asked him.
He checked his mug. “I’m good.”
She