But actually, this was great. You see, I did, in fact, have somewhere to go. And most importantly, I needed Wynezra distracted if I was going to pull off the nefarious shit I had planned.

At eleven o’clock sharp, I arrived at Newell House. (I only stalled once.)

Newell House was a restaurant. Arguably the restaurant—by Carbondale standards anyway. A three-story cube of a building with sandy stucco walls, narrow arched windows, and black-and-white-striped awnings. It was classy in the quaint, rural sort of way you might expect from a town whose only tourist attraction came from outer space. It used to be a hotel, but the hotel burned down in the early 1860s. It was rebuilt but burned down again in 1901. (The place was definitely haunted as fuck.) It was rebuilt again, underwent several aesthetic changes, and in 2003 became a restaurant.

Two years ago, they hired award-winning chef Roscoe Jones—recipient of the Jean Blanchet Chef of the Year, and the James Beard Regional Chef Award (Great Lakes). In other words, he was kind of a big deal. However, his hiring was very hush-hush because he was also an ex-convict.

I nervously adjusted my outfit. I was wearing a long black-and-white-striped punk sweater over leggings and laceless oxfords. I definitely wasn’t trying to match the restaurant, but here we were. I sighed despairingly.

Took a deep breath.

Walked inside.

The walls were lime green—except in random redbrick patches—decorated in 1920s French poster art. The tile floor was speckled and patterned in whites and browns and salmon pinks. Caged chandelier lights hung low over each booth.

This was it. This was as fancy as Carbondale got. Like Kate Middleton dodging paparazzi, incognito.

The place was empty. But only because they opened at eleven. The guy who unlocked the door—a manager-looking sort with a mustache and an overall midlife crisis vibe going on—opened it and held it for me.

“Good morning, miss,” he said, smiling against the weight of his own existence. “Will anyone be joining you?”

“Nope, just me.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Right this way.”

I followed Midlife Crisis to a nearby booth. He handed me a menu and asked me what I’d like to drink. I said coffee. Not that I needed coffee. I was so awake, I was practically enlightened.

Midlife Crisis left. Returned quickly with my coffee. Still smiling. “Here you go, miss. Do you need more time with your menu?”

I looked him up and down. He was wearing a purple crosshatch-patterned dress shirt and a plain yellow tie. The hair on his head was thinning like the Indo-Burma forest. Total manager material.

“Are you the manager?” I asked.

Midlife Crisis chuckled in an unfortunate sort of way. “Yeah. We’re running a tad scarce on servers today. Everyone likes to get sick on the weekend. So, if you’re looking for a job…”

He kept laughing in a way that sounded like he was crying inside.