Page 31 of Stone
Palmer watched him go, then turned and fixed her gaze on the two of them. A twitch of guilt flashed through him—as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“I guess we weren’t as discreet as we thought,” Juliana muttered as Palmer eyed them.
“We weren’t trying to hide. We just didn’t want to be creepy.” He stilled as Palmer started walking toward them. “We succeeded, since she’s coming over.”
The reporter stopped in front of them, her arms crossed, her head tilted. “You’ve been keeping an eye on me,” she said. “You look like you could be muscle sent by Gregor.” Her gaze darted between the two before landing on him. “But the way you’re holding her hand, and that protective shift you took to stand between me and her, says otherwise. You have something to tell me, don’t you?”
Stone glanced at Juliana. She gave a tiny nod before turning back to the reporter and answering. “Yes, I think we do.”
16
The moment Anna Palmer saw the screenshot of the data they’d compiled, her jaw tightened, her gaze darted around, then abruptly she ordered them to follow her. Dutifully, she and Simon trailed the reporter for a couple of blocks before turning onto a narrow lane. Juliana didn’t recognize the area, but Anna Palmer was a San Francisco native; chances were, she knew exactly where to take them to talk. A conversation that couldn’t—or shouldn’t—be held on the street.
“Here,” Ms. Palmer said, pushing on a heavy wood door lacquered in thick black paint. It had no markings or way to see through to what lay inside. Having encountered enough unknown situations in the past few days, Juliana hesitated.
Simon nodded to the small plaque screwed to the wall. “Omar’s Tea and Social.” She was pretty sure she’d never find this place on Google, but the sign, and her own sense of adventure, urged her in.
The door swung open and a small room, no more than twenty feet by twenty feet, sat at the bottom of two steps. In the back, a counter stretched half the width of the space, and behind that, a narrow window that led, presumably, to a kitchen. Beige vinylflooring, stained with age and the scuff of thousands of shoes, covered the floor, but the tables, all five of them, and the chairs looked clean and sturdy. A chessboard sat on one and a box of mahjong tiles on another.
A tall, thin Black man ducked through a door in the back and eyed them. He was old enough to have wrinkles, but beyond that, Juliana wouldn’t hazard a guess as to his age.
“Omar,” Ms. Palmer said. “You have any of that sweet potato cheesecake left?”
His gaze flickered to her and Simon before returning to the reporter. “No, but I got peach cobbler pound cake. You want sweet tea or coffee?”
“Coffee,” she said, apparently answering for all of them.
The reporter nodded to a table on their left, and Juliana almost laughed at the way her two companions jockeyed to face the door. In the end, Simon won, and after pulling out a chair for her, he took the seat at her side. Ms. Palmer sat across from them.
“Omar has the best desserts in the city, but he’d appreciate it if you don’t blab about it. He has no interest in becoming the next big thing for young hipsters who want a story about slumming it to find the ultimate red velvet cake. His father started the place fifty years ago and the current Omar has been running it for the past twenty. He just wants to serve his community.”
A warning—a nicely worded one, but a warning nonetheless.
“I’m not on social media,” she said. “And you have my word we won’t say anything.” Simon nodded his agreement.
Ms. Palmer eyed them. Then coming to some conclusion, she nodded as Omar walked out carrying a tray filled with plates and mugs. The sweet scent of fresh peaches, coupled with spices, maybe cinnamon or nutmeg, wafted toward her, making her stomach growl.
She picked up her fork but froze when Ms. Palmer spoke. “You have an interest in Gregor. I’m guessing Lowery and Polinsky, too, since they’re peas in a pod.”
Juliana set her fork down. Simon’s hand came to rest on the back of her neck.
Over the next ten minutes, she relayed the conversation she’d overheard as Anna (which they’d been directed to call her) peppered her with questions.
When Juliana finished the retelling, Anna sat back, her cake gone but her coffee in hand. “Eat the cake,” she ordered, although her mind appeared to be in a thousand other places.
Juliana glanced at Simon. “It’s really good,” he said with a ghost of a smile.
She’d lost her appetite, but she could pick. And pick she did. While tiny bites made their way into her body, Anna remained silent, one arm crossed over her chest, the other holding her coffee. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at something in the far corner of the café.
When Juliana finished the cake (which grew easier with each bite, because holy fuck was Simon right) and pushed the plate away, Anna’s gaze zeroed in on her.
“So what’s your plan now?” she asked.
Juliana blinked. “Um, keep digging, I guess. Research is sort of my thing.”
Anna switched her gaze to Simon. “You know she’s in danger, right?”
“Iknow I’m in danger,” she interjected, annoyed that the reporter would look to Simon when it came to the subject of risk and protection. I mean, sure, he didn’t look like someone people would want to tussle with—not in his jeans, boots, and cut—but still…
