The Romanos had stolen her reputation, her business, and her peace of mind.

I was going to get it back.

By eleven o’clock, the dining room was empty.

The host locked the front doors, and the floor managers began counting the drawers.

I stayed in the locker room, pretending to organize my locker and clean my uniform.

Eventually, the heavy wooden doors of the restaurant clicked shut.

The main lights flickered and died, leaving only the green exit signs and the dim safety lights.

I waited another ten minutes before slipping out into the hallway.

The air was cold, chilled by the autumn wind rattling the old windows.

I walked quietly through the darkened kitchen.

The stainless-steel counters gleamed under the emergency lights.

Mr. Alvarez was waiting by the basement door.

He held a heavy metal flashlight in his hand.

“Is everyone gone?” he whispered.

“Yes,” I said. “The manager locked up five minutes ago.”

He opened the basement door, and a musty smell of damp earth and old wood drifted up.

We walked down the creaking wooden steps.