A Confrontation in the Dining Room
The moment Harold entered, the dining room fell quieter. Something about him—his posture, his controlled steps, the measured tap of his cane—demanded attention.
The three waiters straightened up as soon as they saw him.
“Good evening,” Harold said, though the sun was still high.
“Sir, can I help you?” Dylan asked, suddenly formal.
“I want to speak to the manager.”
“The manager isn’t here,” Dylan said.
“Then I will speak to the owner,” Harold replied.
“The owner isn’t available,” Mason chimed in.
“Make him available.”
The dining room froze. Conversations halted. Forks hovered mid-air.
Harold didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Authority clung to every word.
Then, from the staircase leading up to the office, Stephen Crowell appeared. Tall, clean-cut, mid-fifties, confident—until he saw Harold.
He stopped cold.
Because he recognized him.
Not as the husband of the woman outside.
But from the hospital, eight years earlier.
From the night Melissa left the world.
“You must be the owner,” Harold said.
“I’m Stephen Crowell,” the man answered quietly.
“And I,” Harold said, “am Harold Whitmore.”
Stephen blanched.
The room felt like it tilted.
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