I don’t want to think about the weekend, but the news coverage makes it all but certain that I’ll have no choice in the matter.

“We missed most of the excitement,” I lie. “If you can call that kind of thing exciting.”

“Sarah’s all over it,” Micah says, looking up from his tablet. “She’s a big crime buff. She says she’s sure the husband must have done it.”

Sarah is Chef’s wife. And he’s right. She’s a huge crime buff. She’s never without her nose in a thriller of some sort when she’s waiting around the Blue Door for her husband to turn things over to the staff so she can go home.

“The husband probably did. I wouldn’t know. We didn’t see anything.”

“Really? Nothing?” he asks, setting down his iPad and sending a shopping list to the printer. I hear the sound of the printer running in the office, and I go over to pull the paper for him.

“Here,” I say, handing it over.

“Thanks, Connor,” he says. “Sarah will be very disappointed. She was hoping that you’d have some inside scoop on this Warner dude. Poor wife of his. Beaten and tossed like trash into the water. What a piece of garbage he is.”

“Anyone who would do that is shit,” I say.

“Yeah,” he goes on. “Sarah’s going to pick your brain, I bet.”

“Nothing to pick,” I say. “We weren’t even there when it happened.”

I finish prepping the tables. It’s a small restaurant with a fussy, well-heeled Seattle clientele, mostly in the tech sector. Micah has aspirations for a lot more than the Blue Door, and his food really warrants it. I never want to be the one who lets him down. I’m the oldest waiter here and the one with the most experience. I serve the best tables. I make the most in tips. By far. It’s a great partnership. Suddenly as I fold a white napkin, the wound on my finger opens and oozes blood. It’s like a red warning sign. A Rorschach splatter. Flashing at me. The events of the weekend rush at me, and I feel uneasy. I don’t know exactly why. I felt fine when I arrived at the restaurant, but now I am shaky and upset. It’s like my brain is trying to reboot, and it just can’t get there.

I run my wound under the tap, sending pink down the drain.

Down the drain.

The truth is I don’t know where that cut came from. Was it from work? Was it somewhere else?