Chapter 3 - THE NEON LIGHTS OF 4TH STREETThe 4th Street Diner was a relic of the 1970s, complete with cracked red vinyl booths, a humming neon sign shaped like a coffee cup, and the lingering scent of burnt grease and old coffee. At 12:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, it was completely empty except for a lone waitress wiping down the counter with a gray rag.
And sitting in the very back booth, half-hidden in the shadows beneath a stained-glass lampshade, was a woman I hadn't laid eyes on in eight years.
Lena.
She looked older, sharper, her dark hair cut into a jagged, uneven bob, wearing a heavy trench coat despite the mild weather. Her fingers were wrapped around a mug of black coffee, trembling slightly.
I pushed open the door, the little brass bell chiming loudly. Owen stayed frozen in the doorway, refusing to take another step inside.
"Wait in the car, Owen," I said, never breaking my gaze from the woman in the back.
"Mom—"
"In the car. Lock the doors. Don't roll down the windows."
I walked across the sticky linoleum floor, my heels clicking like a metronome counting down to a disaster. As I slid into the vinyl booth opposite Lena, she didn't look up immediately. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes darting nervously toward the front window where my car sat idling.
"You haven't changed much, Mara," Lena said, her voice raspy, like sandpaper sliding over wood. "Still wearing that judgmental look like it's designer perfume."
"Where is he, Lena?" I leaned across the table, my voice a lethal whisper. "Where are the rest of the documents? And what the hell kind of game are you playing with my son?"
Lena finally raised her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, dark circles carved deep into her skin. But beneath the exhaustion, there was a wild, desperate glint that I remembered all too well from our childhood.
"I didn't have a choice," Lena said softly.
"You always had a choice. You forged my son's birth certificate, you stole his social security records, you enrolled another child in a school under his name, and my son tells me you threatened him. That’s not a choice, Lena. That’s a prison sentence."
Lena let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Prison? Mara, look at me. I’m already living in one."
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She reached into her oversized leather handbag, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and dropped it onto the sticky table between us.
"Open it," she whispered. "And then tell me who the real criminal is."
