The diner on Fourth Street was three blocks away, its red neon sign flickering weakly against the gray sky.

I pushed the heavy glass door open, and a small brass bell chimed above my head.

The air inside was warm and thick with the smell of grease, coffee, and toast.

I scanned the rows of vinyl booths.

In the far corner, sitting alone, was a man in a dark green canvas jacket.

A black baseball cap was pulled low over his forehead.

I walked over to the booth and slid into the seat opposite him.

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale.

“Ava,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Sean,” I said. “You look tired.”

He let out a short, dry laugh.

“That’s what happens when you spend three months hiding from your brother’s creditors.”

He looked toward the rain-streaked window, watching the street outside.

“Did anyone follow you?” he asked.

“My father was at the university, but I lost him,” I said.

A waitress walked by and dropped two laminated menus on the table, but neither of us touched them.